


The Criminal Witch and His Knight of a Husband

by Cakepopple



Series: The Criminal Witch and His Knight of a Husband [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Archer Hunk, It Got Better, Knight Keith (Voltron), Knight Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Mage Pidge | Katie Holt, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Keith (Voltron), Protective Lance (Voltron), Queen Allura (Voltron), This one ain't even angst, Witch Lance (Voltron), how dare that not be a tag, idek if that's the correct usage of the tag, idk how i forgot that tag tbh, it's just not in space and not at all like the canon, klance, the fact that those are actual tags fills me with an unbearable amount of joy tbh, what have i become
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-02 19:23:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17269631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cakepopple/pseuds/Cakepopple
Summary: Under the rule of an unjust king, witches not employed by the crown had become illegal in the kingdom of Altea. Not wanting to work for a filthy murderer of a man, Lance spitefully refused to get his certification at the normal age of sixteen. But that was over half a decade ago. Altea is now ruled by the beautiful and reasonable Queen Allura, and Lance finds himself happily married to her head knight, despite his fugitive status.Lance struggles with helping hot headed, prone to danger Keith stay alive, while simultaneously keeping his ability to cast spells a secret. He can't have him figuring anything out. After all, the last thing he wants is for his own husband to arrest him.





	1. The Fires of Love-- No Wait, That's a Real Fire

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean I promised a fix-it fic? It's all AU's for now.  
> Enjoy!

The setting sun drew lines across the tiled floor, so it was warm to the touch when Lance put his bare feet against it. Oranges and golds were scattered along the the horizon and they framed the oranges and golds of the leaves on the trees. Lance sat on his sofa, wrapped in a wool blanket and running a needle through different fabrics. He glanced out the window at the sunset, then let his eyes fall across the grandfather clock by the wall. It was about the time his husband came home, so he wasn’t surprised when he heard the door open. He smelled the man before he saw him.

A kiss landed against the crown of his head and normally he would have leaned back into it, giggled, or done something to express his appreciation, but this time he wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes. “Gross,” he commented. “You smell too flowery.” Keith scoffed, flopping next to Lance on the sofa and leaning his soaked scalp against the man, despite the undignified screech that left the brunet’s lips in response. “No! It’s cold! Stop it,” he shouted through waves of laughter. Lance’s husband did as suggested and backed his head up, which, in hindsight, was worse because now Lance could see how _nice_ his hair looked all wet and ruffled.

Lance let his hand follow its instinct, watching as it dropped the fabrics he was working on and brushed its fingers along the damp hair. His eyes drifted to Keith’s, a silent question as to why his hair smelled subjectively nice and left trails of icy water on his fingertips as he touched it. Keith smiled, taking Lance’s hand from his hair and letting a kiss fall against the back of it. Another yelp was drawn from Lance as his ears turned hot and he attempted to withdraw his hand. His husband merely linked their fingers together.

“We did a lot of training exercises today and I figured I’d spare you the smell of my sweat, so I bathed before coming home.” Lance pouted because, while he’d never admit it aloud, he liked it when Keith came home drenched in sweat. He thought it was sexy. “Is it… too much?” The brunet shook his head, gripping Keith’s fingers back. The taller man smiled at his answer, an adorable look of puppy love finding a home across his features.

“Ugh,” Lance rolled his eyes, “stop that.” Keith furrowed his eyebrows confusedly which did absolutely nothing except make him appear even cuter. “I said stop. You’re too cool and grizzled to look so cute at the same time!” He pursed his lips, avoiding the further softening gaze of his husband. “It’s not fair.” Keith gripped his chin and Lance finally let his eyes wander to Keith’s and, oh Gods, he was smirking in such an _impure_ way. What was the dastard planning--

Keith seemed to leap forward, way too eager to run his nose along Lance’s neck. And once there, he murmured words quiet enough that they were only vibrations against his skin. “You say that like you’re _not_ irresistibly adorable.” The brunet whispered nothing in response, savoring the hot breeze that left Keith’s mouth and fanned along his suddenly over sensitive neck. He felt a kiss land there and his shoulders relaxed. His skin might as well have melted when Keith dragged his teeth gently downwards, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Keith wrapped his arms around the small of Lance’s back and leaned him backwards ever so slightly, the shorter man rushing his hands to grip raven hair for stability.

That hair seemed to glow extra brightly this evening, like a golden sunrise shining on morning dew. There was a ring of flames along his scalp, the setting sun reflecting off the damp locks like a halo. The halo broke when Keith dipped him further and Lance's hands tangled higher up, knotting in the hair at his crown.

Kisses were sprinkled between his collarbones, then longer ones were trailed back to his neck and the teeth reemerged, tracing lightly against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. An open mouth dragged hotly against the spot, making Lance arch his spine into Keith and yank his hair. He felt a grin at that action, the lips clinging to his flesh curving faintly. Just as Lance shut his eyes and let his body go completely lax in his husband’s arms, he remembered something. He groaned, a noise that momentarily egged Keith on, and almost lost his train of thought when Keith ran his tongue along the skin he’d been kissing.

“Wait,” Lance breathed, and Keith instantly pulled back, concern scrawled across every inch of his face. An apology formed on his lips as he very obviously worried he’d made a mistake, but Lance shook his head. “No, it’s not you.” He smiled, moving his hands from Keith’s hair to cup his husband’s cheeks, instead. Keith scrambled to support the whole of Lance’s weight in his arms, since he was no longer being gripped by the hair. He shakily returned the smile, still not completely understanding. “I just remembered dinner is on the table and it’s gonna be cold soon.”

Keith finally understood and laughed, pulling Lance closer and into a warm embrace. His fluttering chuckle made Lance’s heart stir and the brunet found himself filled with a simmering love. Not boiling, about to spill over, like it had been a few seconds ago, but bubbling gently in his stomach with a feeling of pride and adoration. He returned the hug.

The two got off the sofa, and sat instead at the dinner table to eat their lukewarm meal. It was some kind of noodles. They made faces at each other while they ate, playing an unspoken game of “who can get the other to laugh first?” Lance won when he slurped ten noodles at once while winking, and Keith choked on his bite of food.

“So, how’s work as the head knight of Altea?” Lance said the title in a way he’d personally describe as the rich person voice. Keith finished his mouthful before answering.

“Fine,” he drawled, stuffing another forkful of dinner into his mouth. Lance gave him an unamused face, wordlessly asking for more details, but in a surprisingly sarcastic way for something so silent. “Uh,” he swallowed his food, “Allura has me hunting a witch.” Lance flinched.

Allura’s reign as queen of Altea had begun with the downfall of a corrupt king. He’d instituted quite a few unjust laws in his time on the usurped throne, and since it had only been half a decade since she’d taken over, the queen had yet to undo all of them. The most concerning law, to Lance, was the law banning the practice of magic without a permit, since _he_ practiced magic and _he_ was without a permit. Technically, Keith was just as obligated to arrest him as he was any other witch, but he remained unaware of his husband’s magical status.

“What?” Lance’s wince hadn’t gone unnoticed by Keith, and the man placed his fork down to bunch his hands together. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” Lance laughed, a noise that was neither genuine nor convincing. “I just don’t really agree with arresting all these witches, ya know?” Keith grunted, unbunching his hands and leaning his cheek against one.

“Yeah, I know you don’t.” He paused, gaze flicking downward at his meal guiltily. “Sorry.” Lance blinked before waving a hand in the air loosely.

“No, it’s your job, I get it.” He tilted his head to one side, considering his next words carefully. “What did this witch do that set you onto them?”

“Oh, he healed some soldiers during that last attack on Castle Town and the soldiers he saved reported him. All we know is that he lives here in Castle Town, somewhere. Seems like a dick move to turn in a guy who just saved your life, but not everyone thinks so, I guess,” he trailed off, but Lance wasn’t listening. His blood had run cold, the ice burning in his veins.

 _Lance_ lived in Castle Town. He thought back to what he’d been doing during the attack on the town about a week ago. It had been the weekend. He’d closed his shop and had been picking up food for Keith and himself to last the week, when screams had filled the streets and the clanging of swords had reverberated off the nearby buildings. The brunet couldn’t recall much, but he did remember the way the plaza he’d been in vacated. And the way a few injured soldiers stumbled in, leaking blood at an undoubtedly fatal rate. Hiding his face, he’d quickly cast a spell over the wounds, effectively healing them. Just as quickly, he’d hightailed it out of there.

Oh, no.

 _Lance_ had healed those injured soldiers.

Oh, Gods.

Keith was hunting _him_.

Clearing his throat, Lance let his gaze steady before meeting Keith’s. “Is it… really right?” The crease between his husband’s brows deepened, and his lips pursed slightly. “I mean, he _helped_ the crown, why would you go after him?”

“I feel the same way,” Keith mused. “That said, I trust Queen Allura’s judgement.”

With that, the issue was dropped. Not the same way one would drop a scalding argument, like some hot potato, since neither had been aggressive in their discussion and, when they got down to it, they were in agreement. But it was put down nonetheless. Stuffed deep into some cabinet of their marriage to be discussed when they might actually have the power to do something about the unjust laws. As they headed to bed for the night, Keith considered bringing it up with the queen. He’d see her the next morning, after all, and if it would make his husband happy, it couldn’t hurt.

His husband’s presence at his side was pleasant as they fell asleep. He’d curled right up next to Keith, clinging like some sort of sloth, and it would have annoyed him if it were literally anyone else, but this was his husband, so he merely brought him closer. The brunet’s breath was warm as he snored, his arms were warm as they wrapped around him, and his whole body warmed Keith’s. They both fell asleep feeling comfortably heated.

Now, they fell asleep toasty, sure, but Keith woke up _hot_. His cheeks burned like he’d been sat in the sun for hours and his eyes stung when he opened them. Padding to the window, he noticed the sky was shining a brighter shade of orange than it had been when he got home. In his tired haze, he wondered if it was morning already. He blinked and his view cleared. The reds and golds on the horizon were not the call of dawn, no, they were the flames of hell.

He rushed back towards his bed, stirring Lance from his sleep and dragging him towards the bedroom door. The man followed with weak ankles and tumbling steps, but made no audible complaints. It was the neighbor’s house that was engulfed in flames and not their own, for the time being, but Keith knew an enemy attack when he saw one.

His clammy hands tugged Lance to the living room and he pushed him behind the sofa to hide. Then, he got himself to the exit and picked his sword up from leaning against the doorframe. His pulse was too loud in his head to think, so he didn’t think of putting on armor before sprinting into the snowing ash.

“Stay inside, Lance!”

Keith observed the fire for a moment before scrambling to the entranceway of his neighbor’s house. His lungs were burning, but as a knight of the kingdom, it was his job to protect his countrymen. He squinted through the smoke and heat, bringing a soot-dusted arm in front of his mouth in a vain attempt to keep the ashes at bay. The wood floors creaked dangerously under his bare feet and he worried they might cave and send him crashing into the basement. Before that could happen, though, he finally found the family that had been trapped inside the crumbling house.

Guiding them towards the exit, he would be relieved to report them all out of the embers and alive. The knight allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. His lungs burned less ferociously, now, but the stinging remained, and he knew he should probably see a healer about it. _Before I go to the castle, I should grab Lance. I don’t want him here alone--_

His thoughts cut off when a scream sprang from the inside of his own house. Hands began to shake and a knight’s sword almost clattered to the ground as he clambered into his living room. He must have taken too long to clear his lungs of smoke, because his fears had become reality, and there Lance was, helpless in the clutch of a Galra soldier. The brunet was squirming and kicking his legs at his captor, but he couldn’t do much with the grip on his windpipe. His hands scratched at the arm around his neck to no avail.

The soldier spotted Keith’s entry and licked the ashes from his lips. Keith stepped slowly into the room, anger coming off him in waves as suffocating as the waves of smoke from next door. Criminal and knight kept locked gazes as they shifted their positions until the former stood with his back to the door instead of Keith.

“I trust this man means something to you,” the Galra soldier cooed, tightening his hold on Lance’s neck in a way that made Keith twitch forward protectively. “Good, I’d like to use him as leverage against you, dear knight.” Said knight grimaced, knuckles whitening around his sword. “We’ve been sent to capture _you_ , after all. I have no use for a pointless, little thing like this.” He shook Lance, who hung limply in his hold, now, eyes dripping terrified tears.

The villain reopened his mouth, as if to say something else he thought was clever, but his words died on a gurgle of blood. A voice rang from a silhouette in the doorway. “Do you have a use for a sword through the gut?” Both the Galra soldier and Lance fell forward to the floor, blood spilling across the tiles, and Keith barely registered the speaker as an ally before bolting towards his husband. The brunet was coughing a storm and his hands remained glued to his throat in fright. Keith cupped the back of his neck and pulled him close.

He made eye contact with the potential ally as he asked, “Lance, are you alright?” Keith felt his husband nod against his chest, but didn’t see it. His line of focus was on Shiro, the man in the doorway with a newly bloodied blade. Relieved Lance’s savior was indeed an ally and a friend, he nodded his thanks. Shiro understood the appreciation without a word being spoken.

Events were staggering to catch up in Keith’s brain.

The knight had spent some of his childhood in the Galra kingdom, so he knew it wasn’t a stretch for him to be the target of this attack. If he was, though, that meant his husband was in _extreme_ danger. He ran solutions in his brain until he found one that was plausible and decided on it. His, in normal circumstances, brilliant plan would unwittingly bring the hidden witch closer to a different enemy, though.

Nudging Lance gently back, the head knight firmly said, “Lance, I’m taking you to see the queen.”


	2. The Gang's All Here

The room was near silent for a few seconds. Only the crackling of the fire next door and the wood snapping under its weight filled the thick air. Lance stared at Keith, blinking the fear from his eyes and swallowing the tears in his throat. Running his sleeve along the underside of his nose, he pulled further back.

“I’m not some damsel in distress, asshole,” he snapped, crossing his arms defiantly. Keith rolled his eyes, muttering something sarcastic, and stood up. He offered Lance his hand, which did not get accepted, and gave him a look. The brunet’s arms remained tight against his chest and his nose, while dripping, stayed upturned. After another couple seconds of Keith’s frustrated glances, Lance finally caved and reluctantly accepted the offered grip and the journey that accompanied it.

He felt a little like a royal with two knights to guide him through the panicking town. Even with the dependable walls of defense, though, Lance didn’t really feel at ease. Because, sure, they were on his side _now,_ but if they knew he was a witch, they’d very easily become his enemies and he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to fight his husband. His spellcasting was probably strong enough, but the gods knew his heart wasn’t.

The castle was large and it sat proudly and ominously on the horizon, outlined by an inky sky and clouds of smoke. It sat there as both a sign of hope and a reminder of the perils in his pseudo-double life. He’d only studied magic as a child and he rarely used it now, but the laws of the land held little regard for sob stories when rendering verdicts; a fact the palace readily reminded him of.

It got closer and, with every step towards it, more intimidating. Lance could eventually see the grout between each silvery-grey brick of the structure and his pace slowed reflexively. His instincts were telling him to stay the hell away because, despite who he was married to, he was a criminal and only criminals with a death wish went where he was headed. He most certainly did _not_ have a death wish.

Lance had unknowingly retrieved his wrist from his husband’s grasp in his haste to delay his arrival at the palace. Keith turned to give him a look that Lance couldn’t quite read; a flicker in his eyes somewhere between confusion and concern, but blended with a spark of clear impatience. Shiro hadn’t stopped, however, and his footfalls were loud as he crossed the bridge over the moat. Keith tentatively gripped Lance’s hand again, guiding him towards the same planks of wood.

The brunet apologized and swiftly resumed his pace, murmuring his excuse, “I just haven’t spent much time here and it’s a little daunting.” What he said wasn’t technically a lie, but it wasn’t what was making him hesitate, either. But then again, how exactly would one tell their husband they’re a fugitive while on the run from a midnight attack?

He hated the way his footsteps echoed along the groaning wood, but somehow the slap of his bare feet on palace cobblestone was worse. His pulse was thunder in his chest and his blood was lightning in his ears. They got closer and closer to the throne room and the storm in his body got worse. He’d never personally met the queen, but he knew she could cast spells, too. He wondered if she’d be able to read him like a book and his ruse would be revealed. Maybe it would have been better if he’d thrown himself into the moat.

The double doors to the throne room were tall and heavy and the wood along the bottom was splintering. They were the kinds of doors you’d expect to howl and creak when moved, but as Shiro placed his swordless hand against the chilled metal knocker, they didn’t squeak under the weight. Two firm beats resounded before it opened in unnerving silence. Someone ushered them in, quickly, and the door slammed behind them.

This was it, Lance was certain. He’d meet the queen here, she’d order him killed, he’d have to watch the love leave his husband’s eyes--

Someone was shaking his hand and babbling words excitedly. Eyes he’d failed to realize had been shut were now opening to spot someone he’d only seen on promotional posters and the castle balcony. And oh my gods she was _right there._ Lance stumbled back, mouth falling open. There was no way _she_ was this happy to see him.

“You must be Lance,” she giggled. “Keith has spoken so much of you!” There was no fucking way this was happening. He turned helplessly to his husband, who was only leaning on his sword nonchalantly, the _bastard._ The brunet faced the woman holding his hand again, mouth continuing to open and close around dead and long since buried words. “It’s wonderful to meet you! I’m Queen Allura.” Lance nodded numbly, gulping the corpses of his unspoken words back down to his stomach. Her eyes were glowing with the same emotion her voice had been; she looked way too happy to be seeing a criminal, so perhaps she didn't know, and he wasn’t going to die today.

Keith cleared his throat and the queen turned to face him. The two began a conversation Lance could predict. Allura had known about the attack, hence her hurried closure of the door, but she hadn’t known anything about what caused it. As a result, she was glad to hear he’d found the reasoning for the threat, though she was not as glad to know what the reasoning actually was. Lance had heard of Keith’s history in the Galra kingdom many times, but he listened eagerly as he told the relevant parts again, regardless.

The knight had been born there, rather than Altea, and he’d also been trained there. He’d been raised by Galra soldiers, grown to be a warrior without rival and, thus, when he’d turned eight or so, they’d entrusted him with a weapon. Well, entrust wasn’t as accurate of a verb as _injected,_ and weapon wasn’t as accurate a noun as _alchemic experiment_. They’d stuffed him with a serum. While he was already the strongest warrior they’d raised, it had made him stronger still. Therefore, when he’d left their army in favor of Altea’s, they’d lost both a powerful warrior and an alchemic achievement of unparalleled strength. In all likelihood, they were here to take that serum back or kill Keith, so, at the very least, the Alteans wouldn’t have the weapon, either.

Upon hearing Keith’s explanation, Allura merely hummed and placed a hand on her chin in thought. The rest of the room was anxiously awaiting her orders. They were, that is, until the door swung back open with a slam, and three more people entered the throne room.

“Fear not,” a woman bellowed. “The party,” a dramatic pause, “has arrived!” Lance had a feeling he’d get along with this woman. She was short and clearly a mage, similar to Lance, but the badge on her cloak told him that, unlike Lance, she was a certified mage of the queen. From above her blonde mop of short hair, he could see the fidgeting figure of a tall and wide archer, and next to him was a skinnier man that Lance recognized as the queen’s advisor, Coran.

All three came further into the room and introduced themselves to Lance. The mage, Pidge, and the archer, Hunk. They also informed everyone that the attack was over and they’d somehow made it through with no casualties, as it had been only a small group of Galra soldiers. Shortly after all that went down, Lance was forced unceremoniously from the room.

“Hey!” Keith stumbled after him, feet light and still unburdened by shoes, since the couple remained in their pajamas. “Why are you shoving him out?” He began to bring Lance back into the throne room with a hand wrapped around his wrist.

“Well, we need to discuss what we’ll do in response to this attack and he’s not my soldier. So,” the queen paused, as if the slow to comprehend Keith would somehow understand her unspoken explanation. “He can’t be in here when we’re planning.”

The knight scoffed, continuing to pull Lance inside. “He’s not _safe_ outside.”

“Aw, the head knight _does_ have feelings,” Hunk cooed. He received a glare in answer. “No, but, Keith, the attack is over and the castle is safe. He’ll be fine in the hallway for a few minutes.”

Keith tightened his grip on Lance momentarily, before ducking his head and letting go. Lance bent over to get a look at his husband’s face. It was somewhere between a pout and a scowl, and he flashed a smile at the grim expression to get it to soften. Only after it did, did Lance leave the room. He shut the door behind himself and sat with his back against it.

All he could hear from the throne room was the mutterings of hushed arguments. He could pick out when the harsh tones belonged to his husband, but never what words were spoken. Every now and then, Lance would swear he heard his own name mentioned, but it wasn’t enough to make him strain his ears to hear more. In fact, after a few minutes, he found his eyes drifting farther shut and his breaths getting longer. It was still an ungodly hour of the morning, after all.

Lance shifted his position so his legs were against his chest and his head rested along the splintering wood of the throne room doors. His arms looped around his knees. There was a window on the opposite wall of the hallway, and he could spot the speckled stars dotting the indigo sky. His eyelids dipped more. Listening to the quiet sound of his husband behind the door, Lance fell asleep.

He had no idea how long it had been since the private meeting started, when he woke up again. The window still showed stars. One of the double doors had opened, luckily not the one he’d been napping against, and his husband emerged. The taller man seemed to have a habit of helping Lance up, since he offered him a hand for the second time that evening. It was accepted without the hesitation this time and in a tired motion instead of a bitter one. He let Keith do most of the work, stumbling forward with the force of his tug. Keith caught him with a chuckle.

“Tired?” Lance nodded, wrapping his arms around his husband’s waist and nuzzling closer to the heat of his neck. “C’mon,” Keith murmured, as he walked slowly backwards and drew Lance along with him. The brunet groaned, digging his heels into the ground as a form of protest. “Queen Allura was nice enough to let us stay at a guest room here for the night. You should be jumping at the opportunity to use one of her high quality mattresses.” Lance stopped protesting at that.

Smirking against the skin of his husband’s collar, he kissed the spot lightly. “Use? For what, hotshot?” Keith made an offended noise, then lifted a hand from Lance’s back to flick the base of his neck.

“Don’t even think like that. I _work_ here,” Keith got out, choking on his words when Lance whined and the noise sent blood to his cheeks. He picked up his pace. He knew the way to the guest room he mentioned.

“Aw, babe, you know what they say about all work and no play--”

“Absolutely not, you’re tired and you’re not thinking straight.”

“Said the gay man to his husband,” Lance laughed, feeling another flick against his skin at the bad pun. Keith opened a door and Lance finally lifted his head from the crook of the man’s neck, immediately missing the warmth. He stood on his toes to see over his husband’s shoulder, all the while damning the way he’d buffed up since they met. But, well, looking at the fancy room they’d be spending the night in, he figured his muscles and height did have _some_ perks. He stepped around the man and onto the plush carpeting with a low whistle. “You sure you don’t wanna _ya know?_ ‘Cuz, holy shit _,_ this bed looks nice.” He ran his hand along the silk pillowcases.

“Lance,” Keith scolded, voice low and warning. The brunet was pulling back the bedspread and crawling under, though, clearly having no intention of abusing the comfy mattress privileges, either. “Besides, I’m too tired. And I have to get up early.” Keith was joining Lance under the covers, quickly realizing just how nice the mattress was and almost, _almost,_ wishing it was his own so he could use it as he pleased and as Lance suggested. Well, how they both pleased, actually, if he could only get Lance naked and between him and this mattress-- He shook his head and dispelled the thought. Better not to tempt himself into making poor decisions. Maybe he knew what to get Lance as a birthday gift next year, though. But who would it really be a gift for?

“Right,” Lance hummed, head flopping against his pillow. “We do.” Keith flinched at the subtle change in wording. He pulled his hands into his lap, as he settled into sitting with his back to the headboard and his head hanging. The man started to twiddle his thumbs nervously.

“Well,” he began, “I do.” His husband looked at him through drooping eyelids, his eyebrows bunched together. “I mean, we’re going to chase after the fleeing soldiers tomorrow, but you’re not coming with us, so you can sleep in. If you want.”

Lance sat up.

“What? No, the enemies are after _you!_ You can’t go without me, that’s not safe!”

“Lance, if you come with us, you’ll be a target. _That’s_ not safe!” Lance made a move to argue, but Keith faced him and placed a hand on his cheekbone. He lifted his eyes to Lance’s, refusing to be distracted by the depth in the blue irises. “Please, Lance, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt because of me-- or worse!” He slammed his eyes shut at the thought of life without his husband. His stomach churned; he felt sick. “Please, Lance,” his voice dipped into a shaky breath and he felt a warm hand fall across his upper arm.

“Okay,” Lance said, “I won’t leave with you.” He dropped his back to the mattress again. “Just come back to me, okay?” Keith was opening his mouth to reassure him without a moment’s hesitation, but Lance began to speak again. “Preferably not in a body bag, either.”

“I promise,” he said, laying on the mattress as well. “Stake my life on it.”

Lance slapped his shoulder. “Not funny!”

The next morning came sooner than either wanted and, even though Lance didn’t _have_ to, he got up as well. He wanted to be able to see his husband off on his mission. And to fluster him in front of his colleagues and boss, obviously. They were all ready to use one of Pidge’s spells to track down the escaped enemy soldiers, and Keith, the dastard, was about to leave without so much as a goodbye hug. Which would not stand.

He called Keith’s name and his husband turned around at what should have been an embarrassingly hasty speed, but Lance could only blush at the earnest excitement on his face. The brunet made his way over, refusing to give away his intentions with even the slightest twitch of a smile. Keith looked concerned at the man’s lack of expression, though, and that in of itself was almost enough to crack him. Almost. He put his hands on his husband’s chest and suddenly the taller man was mirroring his scarlet cheeks, giving him a glare that was half hearted at best. It screamed “don’t do this” at Lance, which was disregarded.

Sliding his hands up his husband’s chest plate and letting them nestle in his hair, he laid a solid kiss against his lips. He licked his own lips after, looking up with fluttering lashes. “I’ll miss you.” Keith’s head was spinning, he could tell. _Probably fighting his urge to give up the mission in favor of spending the whole day with me,_ he thought, smugly.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Keith sighed, lifting a hand to Lance’s head to tuck it forward and press a kiss to his hairline. Darn, guess he hadn’t been embarrassing enough. But he couldn’t _really_ bring himself to be disappointed by the kiss he’d gotten. Leaning closer and hugging Lance tightly, Keith added, so only his husband could hear, “Lance, if you ever do that again, I will disown you.” Oh, so Lance _had_ embarrassed him. The brunet laughed, though, as if to challenge the threat. His husband sighed again. “I love you.”

Lance smiled, landing another kiss on Keith’s lips. “I love you, too.”

With that, he watched his husband, Pidge, Hunk, and Shiro all go walking back over the drawbridge he’d crossed the night before. And he watched long after they’d left his line of sight, too. The queen had sat herself next to him at the edge of the bridge, silently understanding what had drawn the brunet to stare vacantly and at nothing for this long.

It was still a little weird for Lance, being seated next to her royal highness so casually. She seemed to think nothing of it, though, simply humming to herself and watching the clouds. Eventually, Lance stood, brushing dirt off the legs of his pajama pants. And so did Queen Allura, to his surprise, running her hands along the back of her dress without much consideration.

“You don’t have to follow me, Your Majesty,” he said, rubbing the back of his head and frowning.

“Oh, I know. I’m here in case you have any embarrassing stories about Keith.”

Lance snorted, “I do, trust me, but he’d kill me if I spilled.”

“And who says I wouldn’t kill you if you refused to tell me?” The brunet stepped backwards at the low tone of her voice. Could she do that? Dumb question. She was the queen, of course she could do that. He was probably on her bad side already, she was going to look into his history and arrest him when she found out he was a witch. This was where it ended. Throwing himself into the moat was still an option-- “I’m kidding!” Lance let out the breath he was holding. “Anyway, I’m headed back to the throne room. Let me know if you need anything or if you have any stories about no one in particular.”

The brunet laughed at the way the woman winked exaggeratedly, and waved as she left like she said she would, two of her personal guards following her obediently. He stood, alone, at the bridge for a while longer, thinking about whether or not a wave was too informal. Then, he turned to go back to the comfy mattress he’d been lended, but his feet felt heavier in this direction, like a magnet was tugging him back to that drawbridge. He spun on his heel, glaring at the spot like he’d see something there. Needless to say, he didn’t.

Wandering to the middle of the collection of wooden planks, he stared at his reflection in the water. The moat was a lot less intimidating when he could see the sunlight on its surface, Lance realized. It didn’t seem like it was about to consume the bridge with him on it. The sun was behind his head in the reflection, high in the middle of the sky, and he had a dull realization of what time that meant it was. Had it been that long since Keith left? It felt like forever regardless.

How many days did he have to suffer through this? He couldn’t do it. At only noon on the first day, he was already drumming his fingers and sparing anxiously hopeful glances at the horizon. He wouldn’t make it to sunset, let alone whenever Keith finally got back. His husband was off launching himself straight into danger and Lance was staring helplessly into the shimmering water of a moat. Peeping once more at the palace, he started walking in the opposite direction.

Like _hell_ he was going to while away his time in luxury while his husband risked his life. He could cast healing spells, he reminded himself, he wasn’t some kind of dead weight. Well, with his face exposed like this he wouldn’t be able to do much, but if he found a disguise, he could certainly be of assistance. He was jogging, now, plans piecing together in his mind.

It was almost humiliating, running past people he knew in pajamas, but his house wasn’t too far from the bridge he’d just left. When he made it there, he changed out of his nightclothes and into pants and a shirt that were more appropriate for his journey. Then he rushed to his bedroom, pulling a trunk of old witch stuff out from under the bed. Digging around for a minute, he found something that would work. Taking the tattered cloak from the box, he brought it close to his face. It smelled a little stuffy, but it would have to work. Now, he knew he had a mask in here, somewhere…

His search was going successfully enough, but back at the castle, the queen’s search for him wasn’t quite as fruitful. She was hoping to invite Lance to dinner in order to get to know him better, since he was the husband of her head knight, after all, but she couldn’t find him by the moat or in the guest room. Allura called a few guards over and asked them to look as well. After a few hours of no luck, she assumed the worst. He’d been out of everyone’s sights; she’d taken herself and her guards inside when she left the bridge. He’d been alone and outside of safe castle grounds, who knows who could have gotten to him?

She returned to the throne room with slouched shoulders. She’d have to let Keith know. The enemy had Lance. Keith had to know. Tapping a fingernail against one earring, she cast a spell to contact Pidge. The other woman picked up immediately, having her own ring to communicate with.

“Your Majesty, do you already miss us? It’s only been a few hours,” the blonde cooed. She received no response.

Reluctance filled the queen’s voice when she asked, “Keith, are you there?” He grunted a positive answer.

“Is Lance bothering you? You don’t have to call, no matter how much he asks you to,” the knight murmured. “Lance, leave Her Majesty alone!” The woman gulped.

“He’s not here, Keith.” Coran had heard the news and joined her in the throne room. He came up next to her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We,” she flicked her gaze nowhere in particular, “can’t find him.”

No sound came from her earrings for a moment and it was agonizing. It felt like someone had gripped her windpipe or poured molten lead down her throat. She couldn’t breathe. What was Keith going to say? Sure, he was her head knight, she was the one who paid him, but that was no consolation for _losing his husband._ He had every right to be upset with her.

And he was.

Gods, he was.

“You what? He’s at the castle, though, right? You kept him in the castle,” his voice was quiet, not angry. Yet. “With the guards.” He was merely convincing himself, at this point, not really asking a question that needed to be answered. Allura released a sigh that answered more negatively than any words could.

There was a weak, brokenhearted noise from her jewelry and she winced.

“You-- your guards! What the hell were they doing?! How the fuck--” there was an undignified screech from Shiro at the word. “How the fuck did this happen?!”

Coran spoke softly. “We think there might have been a Galra soldier still here who caught him, but we don’t know.”

The queen and her advisor couldn’t see it through the mere audio connection, but deep in the forest where their team had gone, the head knight was losing his mind. He was pacing and making way too much of a scene for what was supposed to be a stealth mission. Luckily, most of the enemy soldiers were a mile or so ahead, but one man was closer and Keith’s enraged shouting tipped him off to the situation. He could have caught up with his allies and alerted them to the fact that an Altean team was dispatched on their tail, but he knew what the head knight looked like. He knew what his target looked like.

The man also knew no one had gone into the castle to capture the head knight’s husband, but a little bit of lying wasn’t above him. He stopped heading after his team, turning instead to Altea’s, and emerged from the crowds of trees. His boots crunched the fallen leaves and his presence was obvious to everyone immediately; even the head knight, who was in no mindset to be aware of his surroundings.

“You know,” the Galra man said, swaying calmly towards the group, despite the weapons that had been swiftly turned towards him. “I’m sure we could strike a deal. Give us the head knight, and we’ll happily give you his husband.”

“Deal.” Keith dropped his sword onto the grass, flinging his hands up in surrender. Shiro hissed his name warningly.

“Think this through,” the man said, picking up Keith’s sword and holding it out to him.

“He’s my husband,” the head knight snapped, pushing the offered sword away. “What more is there to think? Would you have me just hand him over?”

“No, I’m asking if this is really a man you trust. You don’t know him, Keith.”

The younger of the two took a deep breath, considering what his mentor had told him. No, this wasn’t a trustworthy man, he decided, finally accepting his blade and pointing it at the enemy. The Galra soldier scowled, dancing around the tip of the sword and charging instead for the levelheaded man who’d spoiled his plan. Shiro, caught off guard, had come away from the attack with a pretty serious wound to the unarmored portion of his stomach. The enemy got the shorter stick, though, and Keith ran a blade straight through his windpipe. He was dead in an instant.

Shiro knew he’d be joining him soon, judging by the size of the gash he’d received.

A few minutes prior, in Castle Town, Lance had gotten the mask he wanted. It had taken some extra searching, unfortunately, since someone (presumably his husband) had shoved the object he desired deep into the closet. Pushing the ceramic item onto his face, he tied the ribbon behind his head and yanked his cloak’s hood over it. He passed the mirror and winked at his reflection, before stumbling back to the trunk by his bed and taking out a few spell books and a satchel to put them in. He was rusty, okay?

He could easily teleport to his husband; true love and spells have that sort of compatibility. With a quick flash of light, he was within a few feet of his husband and the rest of Altea's team, hidden in the thorns of the greenery behind them. They were speaking loudly amongst themselves, then to a Galra soldier about ten feet from them. Lance really was out of practice, judging by the way the words they spoke failed to reach his brain. His thoughts were muddy and he shut his eyes to gather his bearings.

They reopened when the team’s collective gasp made it through his ears and to his brain, the first sound that had managed to do so since the teleportation. His gaze cleared just in time to watch his husband skewer the Galra soldier in the neck with what should have been a disgusting look to his face. But something about the way his teeth glinted had Lance’s mind going where it definitely shouldn’t have been going. How they’d felt on his skin the night before, for example-- No! He was a grown ass man with grown ass issues, not some hormonal teenager. But, damn, was he glad he’d put a ring on that one.

His focus returned. The lot of them appeared to be panicking, and when Lance saw the unnatural splotches of ruby on the normally gold, autumn leaves littering the ground, he understood why. He’d met Shiro only a few times before, but he considered him a friend, so seeing him die was not on Lance’s to-do list for the day.

With all the bravado a man who was about to out himself as a criminal to a bunch of royal workers could muster, he stepped out from his bush and into the range of sight of his worst nightmare.

“Looks like someone could use a healer!” That was certainly cheesier than he’d meant it to be, but oh well. Cliche, comic book superhero was his witch persona now. A cliche, comic book superhero who had a fuckton of weapons in his face. He lifted his hands. “Whoa, really, I’m here to help.”

“Yeah, sure, for what price, _witch?_ ” Pidge was a lot harder to get along with when she was aiming a nasty looking spell at your throat. “Just ‘cuz I’m shit at healing spells doesn’t mean I’m about to trust a criminal.”

“Well, how about I keep the lot of you safe on your little journey, and you guys get me certified?” Pidge squinted.

“You don’t need us to get certified,” she said, her bitter tone biting Lance’s ears. The team looked confused as to why a witch would essentially turn himself in, but one member pieced it together. Keith, without looking up from the pressure he was putting on Shiro’s wound, spoke with words just as sharp as Pidge’s.

“You’re the witch we’re currently hunting, aren’t you? That’s why you need us to get certified.” Lance nodded, gulping. He was praying to every God he knew that Keith couldn’t recognize him, because this was _not_ the way he wanted his marriage to end. Would his loving husband simply run a sword through his heart without a single regard to their vows? Or would he do it, not knowing it was Lance, and figure out he’d killed a husband he could have otherwise forgiven? Both were unbearably awful.

His mind was racing through every possible way he was about to die at the hands of his favorite person. He imagined Keith heartbroken, prideful, or wearing other emotions Lance couldn’t even name. The worst had to be the way he could practically see Keith killing him without batting an eyelash, stoic as ever with stone-cold loyalty to the crown in his gaze.

Gods bless the queen, who, at the moment his thoughts got the darkest, spoke from the magical jewelry that had yet to be disconnected.

“Doesn’t matter who he is; he’s right. You need a healer if you’re going to survive this mission. I accept his proposition.”

The forest was overflowing with outraged cries of confusion, as everyone badgered the queen for answers. She gave none, disconnecting her call with Pidge without uttering another word. Bewilderment filled the air anew, but Lance’s mind was filled with nothing but a sense of success; _hacker voice: I’m in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hacker voice: I'm in
> 
> No, computers aren't a thing in Altea, but how could I pass up the opportunity?  
> Besides, if clone Shiro was any indication, people can be hacked, too! ;-;


	3. The Loyalty of a Knight

The witch took the queen’s permission and ran with it, walking calmly towards the wounded knight on the grass. Shiro smiled appreciatively, but Keith didn’t wear the same expression; he kept his hands on the gash, applying pressure, and glared at his newfound ally. Even as Lance kneeled and readied a spell, the knight did not remove his hands. The brunet gingerly stretched his fingers in the direction of the injury, blinking his eyes slowly at Keith, like he was trying to bond with a cat. The cat did not blink back.

Lance’s heart was too loud in his ears and all of his movements had such a heavy burden placed upon them. Even with his eyes as the only visible part of his body, he was terrified Keith would recognize them and his anonymity would end right then and there. The same could be said for his words. He was Keith’s husband, after all, if anyone knew his voice, it was the knight kneeling next to him. Lance was doing his best to mask his voice with a harsh confidence that wasn’t normally there, but at the end of the day, he could only change it but so much.

He was sure his eyes were half lidded and uncharacteristically soft as he looked into Keith’s, that they were pleading for something even Lance himself couldn’t name. Mercy, perhaps. Praying for Keith to end the disgusted curve to his lips. The broken glass of his eyes was melted by the fire of Keith’s and it pooled in the corners. His husband’s glare was unwavering and the distrust written onto his features was so unnatural to Lance, he couldn’t stop the tears from scratching behind his eyes.

Finally Keith relented, lifting his hands but continuing to watch Lance. He wiped his hands on a cloth before letting them sit on the hilt of his sword in preparation. His fingers were antsy, tapping rhythmically on the metal. Gods, was he always this intimidating?

The witch ignored the way his blood throbbed in his fingertips, focusing instead on stopping Shiro’s bleeding. It took only a couple seconds of closed eyelids and swirling hands; healing spells were the one type Lance wasn’t out of practice casting. But those few seconds were excruciating, as Keith’s presence next to him was terrifying and heavy. Knowing he was prepared to strike made Lance want to keep his eyes open and trained on his sword hand for no reason other than his own safety. But no strike came and Lance stood once more, brushing dirt from his cloak. Keith and Shiro did the same, the latter slapping his healed stomach and laughing.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, peeling the split in fabric further apart to observe the unblemished flesh. He was still grinning, chuckling as he fiddled more with the area. Lance’s spell had also dried the blood and made it vanish, so Shiro was marveling at the lack of crimson just as much as the lack of wounds. “Yeah, Queen Allura made the right choice with you, kid.” Keith gave him a sharp look at that.

“What happened to not trusting people you don’t know, Shiro?” The older man rolled his eyes and urged the group to continue forward, this time with Lance at their heels.

No one was speaking and Lance was left alone in his thoughts, wondering if it had been this quiet before he came. He supposed not, when he fell a few paces behind the group and they muttered amongst themselves. This would be a boring trip for him, by the looks of it. He was casting tiny lightning spells in the palms of his hands as his only form of entertainment. Lance noticed the way the sparks crackled more loudly when he could hear Keith speaking from ahead, and he flushed and stopped with a gulp. His hands fell back to his sides and he looked at the group to make sure no one had seen his momentary slip in control. No one was looking his way, but wasn’t there one more person a second ago?

“So!” Lance fixed his posture and whipped his head towards the man at his side. Hunk smiled welcomingly, and the witch relaxed immediately, smiling back, though the archer wouldn’t be able to see. “What should we call you?” The brunet gulped. He hadn’t thought about that.

His own name was obviously not an option. “Um, well, whatever you wanna call me, I guess.” Pidge let out a noise, falling back to join Hunk and the unnamed witch. She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry at Lance. The witch put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “How rude!” Pidge repeated the action and Lance laughed.

Keith whipped back to face the sound, stopped walking, and squinted at the mirth in the wrinkles around the eyes of the witch. That laugh made his heart ache and he scrunched his nose at the feeling, not understanding why. It was familiar, as was the swell in his chest, but he couldn’t pinpoint from where. All he knew was that his mind went immediately to Lance. Why had the laugh of a stranger, a criminal, reminded him of his husband? He scowled, gripping the hilt of his sword more aggressively. It hadn’t even been a day since the brunet had gone missing, he wasn’t allowed to lose his head yet. He’d get Lance back and he’d make sure the soldier who took him went through hell. For his own personal satisfaction, if he was being honest.

He’d been stopped for too long. The witch clonked into his chestplate, looking up with a flustered gaze that struck him harder than the hit against his chest had. Gods, his eyes looked just like Lance’s-- no. No, no, no, he was not about to cry here. Lance would be _fine._ He whipped forward with a growl that he knew the witch didn’t deserve. Shiro watched the events unfold with pitying features and Keith pointedly wiped his tears. It was done with a surprising amount of animosity, especially considering the compassion it was directed at. The conversation resumed once Keith rejoined Shiro at the front of the group.

“Anyway, using whatever _we_ want is lame and indecisive,” Pidge scoffed. “Pick something yourself.”

“The Blue Witch,” Lance said, striking a dramatic pose. Everyone but Keith laughed, and he felt a dip of disappointment in his pulse. “Hm, nah,” he said, creeping closer to the knight. Was flirting with your own husband while in disguise considered cheating? No, it was still Keith’s shoulder he rested his chin on. And still Keith’s neck he kissed through his mask. “Witchy Baby.”

As everyone else burst out laughing, the knight stumbled forward, slapping his hand to the spot Lance pseudo-kissed in shock. “Absolutely not,” he snapped, brushing his hands over the violated skin as though the smooch could be removed. Lance couldn’t decide if that should have made him happy or not, since it was hurtful to watch, but the fact that Keith wasn’t even so much as blushing was bringing a smile to his face. He’d picked a good one, hadn’t he? Lance was one lucky man, having a husband this loyal.

“Fine, fine,” he started again. “Call me Taylor.”

“Alright, then, Taylor. We’re setting up camp here for the night.” It was odd that Shiro was taking the lead here, since Keith was technically the head knight, but Hunk and Pidge were listening to him, so Lance did the same.

Everyone started pitching tents they’d been carrying in bags. Lance didn’t have one, so he figured he’d tease his poor husband some more. What could he say? It was an entertaining pastime. The man was struggling with his tent and the witch’s hovering was certainly not helping his frustration. Lance squatted next to him on the ground, poking the cloth his husband was working with. Keith was doing it all wrong, but Lance said nothing.

After five minutes of Lance’s wordless taunting, the witch started to hum. Keith’s knuckles went white around the rope he was tying. His palms were red and his nails were digging into the tightened skin. The brunet scooted closer and finally Keith had suffered enough. He threw the rope to the ground and glared at Lance.

“Can’t you just use magic to make your own damn tent?” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration but, _holy shit,_ did he look gorgeous while doing it. Lance flopped back on his behind and laughed. He winked while swinging his torso forward so he was sure Keith would see.

“Oh, but I’d much rather sleep with you!”

His husband stood up and took a heavy step away from Lance, hissing, “I’m a married man!” Oh, Keith was _good._ A god, honestly. It was making Lance’s life difficult, though, because his _saint_ of a husband deserved a big, fat kiss that Lance obviously couldn’t currently deliver. Even though it was an inconsequential “Taylor” flirting with him and he could have probably gotten away with at least a few whispered innuendos, Keith was as loyal as they come. What had he done _so right_ to earn a husband _so good?_

Meanwhile, Keith’s train of thought wasn’t as loving. Surely everyone in Altea knew he was happily married by now. It had been four years and he was a pretty famous guy, being the head knight and all. So who the _hell_ did this witch think he was? Did he have no shame? If Queen Allura hadn’t given the bastard a place on his team, he would have-- his shoulders slumped. What would Lance have said? _If it weren’t for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered you._ He smiled, flopping back to the ground. His anger had slowed and so had his heart rate.

Lance watched the relaxation flit across his husband’s face. Now that was strange. Keith’s eyes had glassed over and he clearly wasn’t seeing anything he was staring at. His fingers drew lines in the dirt carelessly, as his mind undoubtedly wandered. The soft look on his face was adorable, but this witch wasn’t finished yet.

Deciding to get one last jab in, he said, “not surprising, with such a pretty face.” Keith lunged forward, anger resurfacing, and Lance tumbled backwards onto the grass. “Oof.” Perhaps Lance had gone too far. The knight started to make a noise, but Pidge jogged over.

“Now, Taylor,” she chided, “I know he’s fun to antagonize, but he _will_ stab you.” The mage helped Lance up. “You can stay in my tent, if you want.”

He accepted the offer, moving to help the woman organize her own area. The first few minutes of work were wordless, peacefully so, but eventually Pidge seemed to get restless. Lance could see she had a question on the tip of her tongue, but it took her a while to work up the urge to ask it.

“So,” she’d finished setting up the tent and began to unroll a sleeping bag. “Why didn’t you get certified?” The makeshift bed was flat on the ground and she flopped down onto it. Lance crawled into the tent, but didn’t invade her sleeping space, instead sitting on the cloth bottom of the tent.

He considered how much of his history he wanted to reveal, then cleared his throat. The noise came out muffled under his mask. “Well, I turned sixteen after King Alfor died, and I didn’t wanna be obligated to work for Iago. It wasn’t technically illegal to be an uncertified spellcaster, then, so I figured I could just get licensed once Princess Allura was old enough to be Queen Allura.”

Lance had been eleven when Iago usurped the throne. His predecessor was the highly regarded King Alfor, a pair of royal shoes no one could have ever hoped to fill, and the next in line was the current Queen Allura. But she’d only been twelve when her parents fell ill and passed, so she wasn’t old enough to lead. Thus, the late King Alfor’s “trusted” head mage, Iago, took the throne in her stead and all hell broke loose.

The stories say that immediately upon asserting himself in the throne, the man ordered an invasion of the neighboring Galra Kingdom, a kingdom that, until that very declaration of war, had been a trusted ally. He was ruthless, allegedly going onto the battlefield to kill Galra civilians himself. No one knew what he was really after, but no one needed to. All they knew was that it wasn’t something they could support, and approval of the Altean monarchy plummeted.

He really didn’t help his case when he increased taxes to fund his war and killed his own citizens as threats and warnings. Anyone who didn’t do as he pleased was to die. It was a horrible time for Lance; he’d been forced to watch more executions in the streets than any child should ever have to see and he lived in constant, paralyzing fear. His mother had learned magic when she was little and, recognizing the perils of the world they lived in, she taught Lance the same spells. At the time, it had been a great idea; a brilliant last line of defense between her son and the brutal government. But in hindsight, it was a terrible and near deadly mistake.

Mages were the magic wielders who worked for the crown. Witches were magic wielders  who did not. Now, a decently large number of mages were against Iago, but just about _all_ witches were. They refused to get licensed out of spite, just like Lance when he turned sixteen. But that same year, an army of witches acted upon their disloyalty to the dreaded King Iago, and staged a rebellion. It was snuffed the same night it had started, and in an effort to keep it from happening again, Iago outlawed the practice of magic outside of his own soldiers.

If Lance was terrified by the executions, he was _mortified_ by the passage of such a law.

Not even he had it the worst, though. The law applied to people of all ages: parents, grandparents, and worse yet, children. Lance was sixteen, and thus, he was legally able to apply for certification, but he knew of witches who were ten, eleven, or twelve years old and they weren’t extended the same rights. There was no getting out of being an outlaw for them, yet their mere knowledge of a _single_ spell was still enough to get them executed.

He’d moved out of his parents’ house and opened a shop as a cover for hiding some of those kids, while simultaneously sealing his own fate as an outlawed witch. Because if he got certified after that, soldiers would have checked his store and found the children. He downright _refused_ to risk their lives, so he’d have to be content with being a criminal.

“What about when Queen Allura finally did become queen? Why not then? That was half a decade ago,” Pidge pointed out.

Lance thought about it. Why hadn’t he? For a year or so, it had simply slipped his mind. He was too caught up in the joy of Allura’s coronation, the end of the Galra-Altean War, and Keith’s appointment as a knight. Then he and Keith had gotten married and his reasoning for not becoming certified changed. He was the husband of a knight, he was married to someone with an esteemed position as a soldier of the _queen._ If it got out he’d ever been a witch, it would have slandered his dear husband’s name and he just couldn’t jeopardize that happening.

“I, uh,” the witch flicked his gaze towards the outside of the tent, hoping Pidge didn’t see the way it settled on Keith. “I couldn’t.” His eyes landed on Pidge once more. “I had someone counting on me.”

The woman stared at Lance as though he’d divulge more information on the matter without her asking. She pursed her lips when no details came. The mage couldn’t quite pick apart the deep emotion in Lance’s eyes, couldn’t read the shuddering reflection of sorrow and dread in a stranger. It was like sticking your hand into a bucket in the dark; it was obvious something was there, she could feel it, but she couldn’t see what it was. And she didn’t ask.

She pulled two rolls from her bag and passed one to Lance. After that, she bit into her own, ripping the bread more than chewing it. The witch watched her, before looking to his own food and finding himself at a standstill. He lifted a hand to his mask, tracing a finger along a crack that started by his chin and ran to the ridge of a ceramic nose. Maybe he could squeeze a gloved hand underneath the hardened clay and stuff little bits of bread into his mouth.

Then again, Pidge didn’t really know him, he could probably get away with showing a few inches of the bottom of his face. Gods, he should have paid attention when his mother taught him identity changing spells. Keeping his eyes on the mage across the tent to be sure she didn’t look up from her own fistful of bread, Lance shifted his mask a few centimeters up. He glanced down at his loaf, tearing a tiny piece off... so far, so good.

A sharp gasp filled his ears and he stumbled with his bread before dropping it entirely. His gaze shot up, hands shaking as they yanked his mask back down. This was it. Goodbye Keith, goodbye garlic knots-- no, wait, Pidge wasn’t looking at him. She was gawking at her hand, which she was waving wildly, trying desperately to get something off her finger. And ew, what had she just flung onto his cloak? Oh, fuck no, that was a spider.

Lance shrieked. He’d sprung up and was twirling as much as he could in the tight space of the tiny tent. He fell backwards, watching helplessly as the spider crawled further up his chest. The witch screamed again and he heard unsteady footsteps tumbling towards his tent. Its front was yanked open and Keith was staring down at him, eyes fierce and wide, sword sharp and steady. He looked around the tent, spotting Pidge huddled in the corner, but no one else. The knight gave Lance a look like he’d gone insane, before spotting the arachnid. He flicked it, wordlessly, with his sword, then sighed.

“When you screamed, you sounded like…” His voice cracked and his eyes squeezed shut. “I could have sworn you were-- Nevermind.”

Keith’s mind was roaring on his way back to his own misshapen tent. That frightened noise the witch had made sounded exactly like Lance the night before, when he’d been caught by that Galra soldier. Was Keith really that stressed? He was hearing his husband in places where he wasn’t; he was losing his mind. He’d run right in there, sword drawn, because all he could think about was how he _couldn’t_ lose Lance. And then he’d seen the witch, Taylor, instead of his husband, and he’d remembered. Lance was already lost. It made him ill to think about.

Keith had left his favorite person at the castle to be safe, but he’d ended up captured anyway. What kind of husband could he call himself? He’d told Lance, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you got hurt because of me.” Keith had no idea just how right he’d be. He was resisting the need to cry more and more with every second and it was damn near unbearable.

The inside of his sleeping bag was freezing. _Husbandless._ It was hard to fall asleep. He’d become accustomed to a certain head of chocolate hair resting on his chest and a specific, soft mouth breathing gently across his skin. Being without the heat just reminded Keith of the fact that Lance was missing and made his heart hurt even more. He stopped resisting the need to cry.

Across camp, Lance was on the floor of Pidge’s tent and facing a similar struggle. There wasn’t a single position that could make him comfortable and every inch of his skin was entirely too cold, even with the multiple layers draped over him. His shirt did nothing. His cloak did nothing. He thought about how close Keith was. How cozy his arms would feel around him. That didn’t do anything, either.

He reminded himself that, at the very least, Keith was safe with him here to heal any wounds he’d receive. And better yet, Keith thought he was still back at the castle, out of danger’s way. Maybe Lance was cold and burdened by a fear of being found out, but his husband was safe and worry free. He took solace in that.

Wrongfully.

He hadn’t heard Queen Allura’s grim message to his husband, so he had no way of knowing that _wasn’t_ what Keith was experiencing. Keith was cold, same as Lance was, and cursed with inconsolable dread, same as Lance was. He was crying soundlessly no more than thirty feet away and Lance was none the wiser.

Placing his hands against the warmth at the back of his neck, Lance shut his eyes and joined Keith in resigning himself to a sleepless night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, the biggest antagonist this chapter was honestly the spider, but the next one should have more action... or a cliffhanger... we'll see o3o


	4. His Lance-Colored Eyes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author is v tired... and trying... so hard...
> 
>  
> 
> (this chapter starts with a flashback... which I think is fairly clear, but in case it's not!)

Shiro really thought he’d prepared himself for the heat. Truly. But when he finally sprinted into the flame swallowed remains of the soldier barracks, it was so much hotter than he could have imagined. Any rational person would have said goodbye to the King of Altea and abandoned the mission upon seeing where he was supposed to go. He could live with being a deserter. Iago already suspected him of being a traitor, why not put the final nail in his coffin?

His mind was hesitant to the idea of this war to begin with. Iago was a despicable human being with even more despicable motives and his pointless battle with the Galra Kingdom spoke volumes of his loathsome character. He’d attacked in hopes of gaining an _alchemic experiment,_ but surely their allies would have shared their research, had he only asked.

Iago was too bloodthirsty to see peaceful solutions and Shiro might have been the head knight of Altea, but he was appointed by King Alfor, not his bastard lowlife of a head mage and his loyalties did _not_ lie with the current, crazed King. He honestly didn’t know why he was still fighting for him. Probably some worthless idea that maybe he could do more to stop the war in his position of power than he could as a normal citizen. That failed to make the killing any easier.

He led troops to a battle he didn’t want for a man he didn’t like. To an outsider, he’d seem insane. Actually, to an insider too, considering the way he’d literally darted into a collapsing, burning building. Even Shiro thought himself insane, at this point.

The sword in his grasp was almost too hot to hold now. He’d been ordered to come in here to kill any remaining soldiers, though, so as much as he wanted to drop the added weight, he knew he needed it. But no one was here. He swore to himself, if he died without bringing a single enemy down with him, he was going to rise from his ashy grave to smother Iago with a feathery, allergy dusted pillow. His dry humor was the only thing distracting him from the smoke seeping into his eyes and blinding him.

Whipping around another crumbling corner, Shiro _finally_ found a Galra soldier. Their back was turned and, muttering a quick apology to the likely innocent Galran, he slid a sword between two of their vertebrae. Even over the loud hissing of the fire, Shiro heard the dull noise of his blade hitting bone. His stomach churned. It probably wouldn’t have bothered him as much if he weren’t feeling so guilty. How many more years until Princess Allura took the throne? Five? Six?

_Too many._

He didn’t get paid enough for this.

He could only see an inch in front of his face, it was no wonder he hit a wall. A fork had appeared in the hallway and he braced himself against the surface he’d run into. Shiro had to pick right or left. Glancing both ways and feeling a duller heat in one direction, he made his choice. Iago said he had to come in here, but he didn’t say what rooms he had to visit, so the safer route wasn’t forbidden. _Take the little victories, Shiro._

And, _shit,_ that was another wall. No, wait, no, that was a Galra soldier with an axe and a far from pleasant countenance.

Shiro leapt back from the swing of his enemy’s weapon, terrified by the solid crack in the floor where it had landed. Better there than in his skull, he supposed. The soldier was faring much worse than he was, their breaths were heaving and sputtering. The look in their eyes was foggy, all the smoke probably making their sight blur. Shiro was lucky his husband was a mage, because the enchantment on his wedding ring was the only reason he could still breathe and stand.

The enemy pitched forward and passed out on the ground. It felt wrong to kill someone unconscious and defenseless, but they’d get a better death by Shiro’s hand than by the flaming building. He dropped his sword and picked up the Galran’s axe, swinging it down to behead the soldier in a single, hulking strike. The head knight paused to collect his guilt and shove it deeper in his stomach, before retrieving his sword and continuing his sprint.

Flames were climbing higher up the walls, beginning to eat away at the ceiling. This building didn’t have much longer. But he couldn’t go back out with only two kills, lest _he_ become the third. He had to have something of value before facing his King; he’d seen what happened to those who returned empty handed.

The smoke was clearing, and while it was still too thick for his comfort, he could see more of his surroundings. He spotted another Galra soldier and they spotted him, too. Their eyes were clear, gaze unaffected by the fire and smoke, with a posture that was unhindered by exhaustion. Obviously, they could breathe. _A mage._ They readied an attack, but Shiro charged before it could leave their fingertips. He struck their chest, piercing their robes and lungs, and pulled back so they could fall as unhindered as they’d stood. No longer could they breathe.

Three still wasn’t enough for the head knight. No, for a leader to bring back only three kills was unacceptable. He needed at least one more. Just one more.

He stumbled across a few vacant rooms, empty save for the blazing heat within. Then he spotted another soldier, standing in the center of a piece of hallway maybe twenty feet away. There was his “one more”. He got closer, though, and realized this couldn’t be his final kill. The boy turned to face Shiro, eyes glowing and teeth bared. As he saw the chubbiness to the soldier’s cheeks, he knew; this was a child, not his enemy. He’d do a lot to keep his position, kill a lot of people with the hopes of ending this shitfest of a war, but children? _Children_ were off the table.

The head knight lowered his sword, angling it at the floor rather than the swaying child in front of him. His enemy didn’t mirror the motion, instead lurching forward on wobbling ankles to take a swing of his own blade at Shiro. He missed, falling to the ground with the momentum of his attack. The boy was struggling to stand up, stifling coughs in the crook of his elbow. It was the perfect time to strike him down, if that had been what Shiro was planning. But that wasn’t what he had in mind.

Poor thing only made it as far as standing up again before passing out. Shiro knelt down next to him, sheathing his sword to scoop the boy up. He barely looked twelve; the head knight wasn’t about to let him die. Shiro leaned the boy’s head against his chest before placing one hand against his neck. Hopefully the mere touch of his enchanted ring would be sufficient to keep this kid breathing.

Three kills would have to be enough after all, because he was making his retreat now.

Luckily, three was plenty.

Iago had been thrilled when Shiro brought the unconscious boy out of the wreckage. He’d run over, not bothering to wipe the blood from his hands, then began to prod and poke the child’s sooty cheeks. The king was grinning in a way that made the head knight cringe and pull the sick boy closer. That wasn’t a kindhearted smile, that was a greedy sneer.

“Oh, excellent work.” Iago carded a hand through the boy’s hair, leaving it dripping crimson and reeking copper. “You’ve found it.” _It._ Shiro didn’t like that. _It._ This was a little boy, not a possession. _It._ The word was vile in his ears.

He said nothing, though, staring numbly at his king. When the man tried to take the boy, however, Shiro didn’t give. Iago gave him a fiery look, not used to defiance from the normally obedient soldier. The head knight gulped, not letting weakness leak onto his features. “Your Majesty,” he started, “I need to be the one to carry him. He breathed in a lot of smoke, and my ring is helping.” His king bought the excuse, fire in his eyes snuffed, and turned back, ordering a retreat.

Once back in Altea, Iago finally explained why _it_ was so important, refusing to refer to the captured child with more appropriate pronouns. The king called him _it_ or _The_ _Weapon_ , another abhorrent title the kid was given. He’d been injected with that _alchemic experiment_ Iago was searching for, and was thus valuable to the king. Whether that was as _The Weapon_ or as research, Shiro didn’t know.

Iago had ordered Shiro to train the boy as one of his royal knights, but Shiro bought the boy time. He pointed out that he wasn’t yet the necessary age of eighteen, and the king scoffed, but allowed him to wait. Now, that’s not to say Shiro didn’t still teach the kid how to fight, because he had. He’d taught him everything he knew. The Gods knew the boy would need it if he was ever employed by Iago. It took a while to get the child to trust him enough to teach, though. Only after about a month of ceaseless kindness did he even get his name.

It was Keith.

How many years ago had all that been? Keith was twelve then, twenty three now, so that meant eleven years had passed. _He hasn’t really grown up that much,_ Shiro mused, eyeballing the way Keith was giving Taylor wary and untrusting glares over the breakfast campfire. He’d gotten those very same glares for almost a year.

Taylor was offering to help cook breakfast, holding the slabs of meat out to Shiro hopefully. The food was accepted, but the assistance was not. He’d waved the witch off, telling him he could go sit down and chat instead. Well, he certainly did as he was told.

“Hey,” the witch breathed, bending towards Keith’s sitting form and catching his attention. The man looked annoyed already. Shiro swore the fork in his hand was creasing to the shape of his fist. He angled the weapon-- silverware at Taylor and nodded for the man to continue.

“What do you want, _witch?_ ”

The harsh tone didn’t deter the ruthless Taylor, however, and he brought a hand to his plain, grey mask. He tapped his forefinger against the clay a few times, swaying his hips innocently. His posture swung one way, then the other, and Shiro could see impatience clawing at his understudy’s features. Keith was flushed, anger turning his ears and cheeks rosy. He was two seconds from kicking Taylor’s legs out from under him and watching him fall into the campfire, but the witch was safe, since he finally answered.

“I was just wondering,” he pointed at Keith’s lap. “Is this seat taken?”

On second thought, watching him burn was still an option.

“By all means,” the head knight seethed. “If you want me to slit your throat, take a seat.” The witch laughed, falling into a spot next to Keith, rather than his lap. His eyes shone as he giggled. The same way Lance’s would. The head knight winced, gripping his fork tighter.

Keith had always thought Lance’s eyes were unique, but he could never describe why. The color wasn’t uncommon; it was a deep and pleasant shade, like the hue of an early morning, before the sunrise. Where the twinkling obsidian ended and edged back into the foggy blue of daytime. He thought about that color a lot, but it wasn’t exclusively Lance’s. Clearly, since Taylor had the same pair of orbs.

But even as Keith saw the color on his new companion, it still seemed to belong only to his husband. He felt a little bitter at the way someone else, someone untrustworthy, could just walk around wearing a hue that was so perfectly Lance. He knew those eyes like the back of his hand, but they weren’t actually the ones he knew and it confused him. His heart was telling him one thing, his brain was telling him another. He didn’t like the conflict. The constant clashing of emotions and logic was tiring.

And his eyelashes… Taylor’s eyelashes were the same as Lance’s, too. Just as long and lush, curling to touch the tops of his eyelids. They fluttered the same way, as well. Both the witch and his husband would occasionally blink before they laughed; a swift second of comprehension and calculation, as if to decide if it was worth laughing. It was an endearing moment of hesitation that got Keith on the edge of his seat, wondering if he’d get a cute giggle from his husband or not. He was rarely disappointed.

Not to mention the motion of his hands to his lips, in an attempt to cover his mouth and smother a big laugh. It was excruciatingly adorable to watch. There’d be a moment where the air rushed to Lance’s cheeks, puffing the skin out with a loud noise. Then, despite his best effort, it would all tumble out, bursting past his lips with a sound akin to a raspberry. On the one hand, Keith always wished Lance wouldn’t cover his face like that, but on the other hand, it was a charming event to watch unfold.

Oh.

But Taylor wasn’t doing that.

Keith had gotten lost in his thoughts.

The witch had stopped laughing a while ago, but Keith was too busy thinking about his husband to notice. He’d fallen behind in the conversation around the campfire, so he didn’t know what made everyone laugh again, but he saw how Taylor leaned forward, holding his torso. He wondered if everyone did that because, once again, it was something he’d seen Lance do. Gods, he’d gone soft. Was it normal to think about his husband this much?

Perhaps the knight had taken his spouse for granted because only now that Lance was missing did he remember his unique mannerisms. The way his hands moved, the way his eyes shifted, all of it was only obvious in the figure of a stranger. He was unbelievably frustrated with himself. If he could go back in time, he’d berate himself for not noticing the quirks when the man next to him was actually Lance.

He’d be certain to appreciate every habit when he got his husband back.

“So,” Taylor spoke again, catching Keith’s attention with the unusually quiet dip to his voice. “Where are we all headed? Our resident hottie,” he shot a wink at the head knight, “killed that soldier already. What more is there to do?”

Shiro cleared his throat. “Well, we’re following the other soldiers that fled Altea.”

“Okay, but why? It’s not like they stole anything valuable.”

Keith swung his head to face the direction opposite of Taylor, scoffing and glaring at the grass. “My husband’s pretty valuable.” He felt a mindless hand on his shoulder and flung his gaze to look at it, but Taylor withdrew the limb like Keith’s armor had been a lit stove. Then he cradled it to his chest with a dullness to his eyes that the knight couldn’t identify. The witch put a few more inches between them self consciously, flicking his Lance-colored eyes to his lap. Keith could see Taylor’s eyebrows furrow as they dipped low enough to be seen through the holes in the mask.

“Wait, wait.” Was he confused? “They have your husband?” The emotion Keith couldn’t read thickened and the confusion seemed heavier.

Keith wasn’t able to tell, but the emotion on the witch’s face was guilt. Lance had left the castle without a word and until now, he hadn’t thought about how that might seem. But when Keith said his husband had been taken by the enemy, he understood that his escape was the reason Keith thought he was missing, _captured._ But he had no way of assuring his husband that he wasn’t; not if he intended to remain anonymous.

He’d never been in such a dilemma. His personal goals and his urge to keep Keith in high spirits usually led to the same actions, since making his husband happy typically _was_ his goal. But now, his desire to help Keith had put him in a position of being unable to cheer him up. He was at a loss for what to do. So he sat there, coals in his stomach and words caught in his chest, until Shiro finally answered.

“Well, yes, but that’s not actually why we’re chasing them.”

“Speak for yourself.” Keith had shot back a reply before Shiro’s last word could completely silence. He stood up. The movement was so fast and so sharp, that the witch next to him jumped and felt his heart shoot into his throat. Keith went stomping to his sword, fastening the sheath to his belt, then tapped his foot impatiently. Lance watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed.

The man appeared furious, eyes laser focused and heated, lips drawn into a sharp line across his face. He clenched his fist a few times, blinking rapidly. Sure, he looked angry, but Lance knew when his husband was about to cry. Every fiber of his being was shouting, _begging,_ for him to leap up and comfort the knight, but he just stared as the tears pooled, looking back to the campfire before he had to see them fall. No one said anything in reference to Keith’s outburst; the entire team understood why he’d reacted like that. They didn’t need to ask.

Shiro spoke again after a minute or so of painful silence. “We’re following them back to the remains of the Galra kingdom. It fell into ruin after the Galra-Altean war and most of the lands were claimed by neighboring kingdoms, so there shouldn’t be anyone giving those soldiers orders. Hell, those soldiers shouldn’t even exist, but they do, so we figure that by following them, we’ll find whoever is leading them.”

And then Shiro had finished cooking breakfast, so the conversation ended. Everyone ate wordlessly, the atmosphere more tense than it had been before Keith began to cry. The head knight looked embarrassed when he got his food, and he took his plate to meander deeper into the woods. Either no one noticed, or no one cared, since none of the team tried to stop him. Lance wasn’t his teammate though; he was his husband, so that wasn’t going to fly in his book. He stuffed his meat into his mouth, then took off after Keith.

The man was leaning against a tree when Lance found him. He was stabbing his food, sliding it around his plate like a toddler, and he didn’t look up when the witch’s footsteps got closer. His fork nestled deeper into the meat, before he brought it to his teeth and tore a piece off. Then the rest was put back onto the plate. Keith had noticed him, he could tell, but the head knight had yet to say anything.

Lance didn’t know quite what to do. He knew what _Lance_ would do. _Lance_ would give his husband a tight hug, the kind with his arms around Keith’s waist and his hands on Keith’s back. The kind that was warm and comforting for both of them and left lingering traces of Keith’s scent in his nose. The kind that might end with a kiss. But he wasn’t Lance right now. He was Taylor. And what Taylor should do, he didn’t know.

Leave before the head knight cut him open, probably.

Keith began to speak, but he didn’t look up.

“You know, Shiro,” he said, ripping another bite from his meal. Apparently, Keith didn’t know exactly which person had come to see him. “You’re really a shit cook.”

Aw, man, Keith was really asking for that hug. His words were all the harshness and vulgarity Lance would expect from his husband, but the tone was anything but. It was hurt and dripping with unshed tears, seeping a collection of raw emotions that made Lance’s hands twitch with the urge to cradle his husband’s face. He resisted the impulse and stood still, feet planted on the ground.

Keith took the lack of movement as its own response. He must have thought he’d overstepped a boundary of some kind, since he began to backpedal. “Sorry. I’m just worried about Lance, I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He looked up and let out a strangled noise. “You’re not… Shiro.” He slapped his mouth shut, swiftly dragging the palms of his hands along his face to sop up the trickling tears. His eyes were glassy and his skin was a blotchy red that compelled Lance to reach his fingers out in a split second of vulnerability. He wanted to dry the tears himself, not watch Keith do it. But he stopped himself, hands only rising an inch before falling limply back to his sides.

“No, I’m not.” Gods, was that Lance’s voice? It sounded just as wet as Keith’s. “I just came to check on you.” He gulped. “I’m sorry about your husband.” The words were something between bitter and sour in his mouth. It was weird to refer to himself as someone else, to mutter pitying words for his husband about something he himself did. That would be the closest he’d get to apologizing for his mistakes, though.

Keith used his elbows to push off the tree he was leaning against and forced the rest of his breakfast into his mouth. He hung his head, hiding the broken face he was wearing as he started towards Lance. As he passed the witch, he paused and lifted his head briefly, taking a deep breath in preparation of saying something, but his expression fell again and he seemed to decide against speaking. He brushed past his husband without a word.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the witch murmured. That was something Lance could say more than anyone else here. He was the only one who knew what was going on. He was the only one who could say, without a doubt, that Lance wasn’t currently in any danger. But the head knight didn’t seem to be relieved or even affected by the claim, nor did he seem slowed in his trek back to camp. Lance felt guiltier and, spinning in a thoughtless turn, he muttered, “Keith,” sadly and _all wrong._

He hadn’t said that how he should have. He’d murmured the name like the concerned lover he was, but wasn’t _supposed_ to be. Lance was _supposed_ to be a stranger. He sucked a mouthful of air in a swallowed gasp, thankful his mask had muffled the noise. Keith’s body had gone rigid at his call, though, making Lance’s heart stir anxiously. He turned to face the witch, words once again at the tip of his tongue and Lance was sure he’d been found out, until his husband furrowed his eyebrows in some expression of confusion or resignation.

“Don’t,” he breathed, before correcting himself. “ _Please_ don’t say my name like that, everything reminds me too much of him already.” And he spun back around to continue back towards the team.

For once, Lance was glad he’d married an idiot. He’d blamed the similarity in Lance’s and Taylor’s voices on his own desperation, rather than the possibility that Taylor and his husband were one and the same. In any other circumstance, the witch would have been bothered by Keith’s dense nature, but it had just saved his life, so he let it slide this time.

After that, Lance had trailed behind the man, following him back to camp, where the tents had already been taken down. The team was ready to go, waiting only for Keith to stuff his dirty dish haphazardly into his bag before swinging the sack over his shoulder. With that done, Shiro stamped out the campfire and guided everyone back onto their enemy’s trail.

While Shiro was the one leading the way, Pidge was the one doing the work. It was her spell that traced a faint glowing line onto the grass where the Galra had been. They’d spent the night not far ahead of the Altean team, the latter stumbling across the former’s smoldering campfire remains only a few minutes after leaving breakfast. Lance supposed they were making better time than their enemies, having caught up a startling amount in a single day. If they picked up the pace a little more, he was sure they could capture the soldiers by nightfall.

The mission was due to be longer, however, since their goal wasn’t to capture the soldiers; it was to capture their _leader._ Lance could see the way the forced patience was eating at his husband. He could also see the way everyone else saw, too. Hunk had been hanging closer to Keith, every now and then making a comforting comment or gesture, Pidge had been keeping quiet, teasing Shiro or Lance instead of Keith, and Shiro was babbling mindlessly as a form of distraction. Lance was the only one doing nothing.

He was also the only one who could actually help.

The morning chill had left the air by the time they found something else interesting. Their enemy’s trail had tapered off the relatively straight path it’d been following, curving instead to a collection of buildings nearby. It lingered in the settlement, running circles and loops around different structures, before continuing in its previous direction. The Altean group stopped, eyeing the buildings warily in search of any remaining danger; the closest they spotted to said danger was a Galra flag flying proudly in front of one of the cabins. Luckily, no people.

Shiro waved a hand in warning, coaxing the rest of the team to halt their advances. Then he leaned his bag against a tree and dug through it, eventually pulling out a roll of paper. He studied the map for a moment, flipping it one way, then another, until he ultimately found whatever it was he was looking for. Still attempting to keep quiet, in fear of enemies nearby, he held the map out wordlessly, tracing a finger along a bold line for everyone to see. On one side of the line, the word _Altea._ On the other,  _Unclaimed Lands._

Voice hushed and hidden behind his hand, Shiro started to explain, sparing nervous glances at the Galra cabins between words. “We’re getting close to where the Galra Castle Town used to be, so we’ve entered lands not technically part of any kingdom. Though,” he pointed at the flag flying maybe a hundred feet away, “I guess someone’s unofficially claimed it.”

He stuffed the map back into his bag, before waving everyone forward once more. They were just about completely around the settlement without encountering any inhabitants, when an arrow whizzed right past Lance’s cheek. He felt it take a chunk from his mask, a crack now weaving a spider web along the side of his face, as well as his chin, which had been there before. The man took a few steps back, squinting at the shadows hiding whoever fired the shot, and readied a lightning spell in his hands. But before he picked any targets out, a glint of sunlight caught his eye and he was tugged none too kindly out of the way of three more arrows.

One tore into the sleeve of his cloak and Lance felt the telltale sting of a cut.

“Looks like some people live here after all,” Shiro bellowed, unsheathing his sword. Lance just couldn’t catch a break, could he?

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Hope this update was everything you loyal readers were hoping for! Let me know if it was (or wasn't x.x)!  
> Also, if any of you are artists, feel free to draw anything in the story, just let me know so I can look and cry tears of pure joy,,,  
> Thanks for reading!! o3o
> 
> P.S. While proofreading, I read "oh, for fuck's sake" in the voice of that one vine... with the balloons... in the car...


	5. What Really Makes a Husband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took a little longer than the others, I was spending time with my mother :)
> 
> I hope it's everything you were anticipating!

“Too bad that missed, Taylor,” Keith quipped, as though he hadn’t been the one to pull Lance out of the way of the incoming arrows. The knight was sprinting towards the thickest tree he could find, unable to fight off the long range fighters with his sword. He made it there just in time for three more arrows to lodge themselves into its trunk instead of his spine. Lance slipped behind a tree next to him.

“Aw, rude.” His words were muted and distracted. He was running his fingers along the newest splits in his mask, watching the clay flake off onto the grass by his feet. The fractures weren’t too bad, none of the cracks were deep enough to expose his skin, but another hit like that and they would be. He’d been almost caught too many times already, Lance couldn’t risk even a single piece of exposed skin on his face.

There wasn’t an inch Keith hadn’t memorized, after all, and Lance knew that. If Keith caught so much as a glimpse of the freckle under his cheekbone, his cover would be blown; his husband had made a habit of kissing the spot. If Keith saw so much as a sliver of the faded scar on his temple, he’d be done for; his husband had made it a custom to fuss over the way he got it. And if the mask broke to reveal the curve of his lips? He might as well take Keith’s sword and impale himself then, because there was no way in _hell_ his husband would fail to recognize that bit of flesh.

But for now, Lance was safe.

He surveyed the makeshift battlefield for his teammates. Shiro was also keeping himself safe behind a shield of bark, but Pidge and Hunk were on the offensive. The mage had conjured a barrier, a highly advanced one too, as it allowed Altean arrows out, but kept enemy arrows from getting in. Hunk stood with her, inches behind the barrier, and was firing arrows at a faster rate than Lance thought possible. The archer couldn’t make out what he was aiming for, however, so his shots weren’t doing much damage.

Before he could draw another projectile from his quiver, Lance booked it to join the duo next to the magical shield. Thinking as much as he could about bright objects, he prepared to cast a helpful spell. It would have been a lot easier if his mind was supplying images of sunshine or fire, rather than the radiance of his husband’s smile, but Lance worked with the few useful items he could think of, and launched a stream of magic into the section of forest from whence the attacks were coming.

It was by no means his best brightness spell, he was out of practice and his Keith obsessed mind was _not_ doing wonders for his focus, but it illuminated the shaded trees just fine. Hunk spotted his targets and began firing with even speedier and more precise shots. He blurted some kind of appreciation, but Lance was focusing on counting the threats. Surely the archers weren’t the only soldiers here…

Four figures darted from a different line of trees, all carrying various short range weapons, and Lance’s suspicions were proven correct. He couldn’t remove his attention from the spell he was casting for Hunk, the archers were just as dangerous as the other fighters, but the close combat fighters were coming straight for him and he needed to do something. Preferably before they walked around Team Altea’s magical shield and stabbed their exposed backsides. Luckily, Keith had also seen the four and sprinted out into the field to meet them.

Head knight or not, Lance’s husband was _insane._ There were still arrows flying out into the middle of the battlefield, where Keith now was, but his heroically dumb ass had run right into the danger zone. Lance figured if there was a time for attempting to cast two spells at once, this was it. It was a dangerous task, one his mother had always told him not to try, but since his husband was being valiantly stupid, Lance supposed he had to do the same. If the bright objects he focused on were the shining eyes and gleaming grin of his husband, as his mind had wanted to think about all along, perhaps the middle ground could produce both brightness spells and protection spells at once. The witch shifted his mindset, and while the spell for Hunk got weaker, he heard the familiar sound of a protection spell from around his husband. It echoed like a sheet of plastic being oscillated at a rapid pace, and every time an arrow would hit Keith’s skin, the item would subsequently bounce off and slip to the grass next to his feet.

The knight watched an arrow reflect off his skin with a bewildered expression, but quickly understood and shot a thankful grin back at the witch. Lance was relieved his mask was still in tact, because he couldn’t have mustered up the strength to smile back. His skin was prickling, sweat was beading on his brow, and his muscles had already started to burn. Casting two spells at once was exhausting and the brunet had really wanted to conserve his energy. On the off chance someone needed intense medical attention, he had to be completely ready, because he was the only one who could help. But at the rate he was currently wearing himself out, he wasn’t going to be conscious much longer, let alone capable of healing spells.

Pidge was watching the fatigue drain strength from his joints, noting the way it made the witch sag forward. She was versed enough in magic to know their team healer was overworking himself. She was the best mage in Altea, and not even she would cast two spells at once. He must have been desperate if he was resorting to such a poorly conceived tactic. “Hunk, how many more archers can you see?”

He fired another shot. “I’m not sure. Ten, maybe fifteen.” The woman hissed. That was too many. But there was nothing she could do while her barrier was up, so she turned to watch Keith. If he could handle his enemies quickly enough, the healer could drop his protection spell.

Unfortunately, the head knight was taking his sweet time. Still marveling at his temporary invincibility, he was getting bolder in his attacks, waiting to pull back until the last possible second. After all, he didn’t need to, right? One of the four fighters swung at his side and the fabric around his waist tore, which was expected, but he also felt something _un_ expectedly warm bubbling on his skin. He stumbled back, holding the injured area. He didn’t understand, why had he been cut? Keith looked over at Taylor, wondering if he’d been knocked out or killed, but the man was still standing. Weak, but upright. And if he focused, Keith could still hear the sound of the spell dancing atop his skin. So, why had he been hurt?

“It’s only effective with projectiles, you dimwit!” Pidge was tired of Keith’s lollygagging. This was a group of the strongest warriors Altea had to offer; there was no excuse for his hesitance in battle. And, quite frankly, they didn’t have the time for it. “You can handle the other dodging on your own, can’t you?”

Keith was offended at the uncertainty. He was the head knight, of course he could dodge a few swinging blades. Well, he thought as much until another blow landed against his arm. The knight had to get his head in the game. No one else could handle these four fighters. Everyone but Shiro was busy, and Shiro couldn’t help, since he didn’t have the projectile proof shield Keith did. _If I don’t get past this group of fighters, I’ll never reach wherever Lance is being held captive,_ he reminded himself. _And that isn’t an option._

The man struck with a new weight behind each swing. He’d caught one enemy completely off guard and downed them in a single hit, aiming for their unarmored chest. None of these soldiers had armor, actually. Their attacks weren’t as well timed or accurately angled as those of professionally trained fighters, either, nor were their weapons as advanced as those of the fleeing enemies Team Altea had been chasing. Keith began to wonder if these were soldiers at all.

Three blades came at him at once. He was able to move his hips out of the range of two, but the last nicked the top of his armor, way too close to his neck for comfort. Keith swung back at the fighter who managed to land that last hit, inflicting damage with far too much ease to be proud of his work. The enemy crumpled after the sword was slipped out of his gut. That left two more.

Hunk was out of arrows. Once the battle was over, he could probably gather what he’d shot and salvage the ones with fletching still attached, but he was stuck behind Pidge’s wall for now. There were two enemy archers left, but he had no way of taking them down. Maybe Shiro could rush them and handle it, but in order to ask for that assistance, Hunk would have to yell loud enough for Shiro to hear from behind his tree. If he did that, the enemies would likely hear it too, and the probability that they’d let that plan come to fruition after hearing about it was slim to none.

Lance looked to his right and noticed how motionless Hunk was. He wasn’t reaching his fingers to his quiver, nor was he gripping his bow string, so he must have finished off all the long range enemies. “Hunk, you done?” His voice was hoarse; this double spell thing must have been destroying his insides. The archer shook his head, and only then did Lance notice the lack of arrows in the pouch on his back. Ah, so that was it. “I might be able to help,” he groaned, aching already at the idea of casting a third spell.

“No! Not happening! You’re already spread too thin,” Pidge snapped, glaring at the masked witch. She could come up with another solution, all she had to do was look at her surroundings. Surely there was something there that could help. Hunk’s arrows were far away, scattered along the moss on the enemies’ side of the forest, but the enemies were firing three times as many shots and their projectiles had landed right at the edge of her shield!

Dropping a portion of the barrier, much to Hunk’s horror, Pidge reached a small hand through the gap she’d created. Her fingers wrapped around a handful of arrows that had reflected off her wall and fallen into the dirt. Before anyone could shoot her in the hand, the mage pulled back inside and shut the barrier once more. Handing the items over to her companion, she said, “Hunk, make ‘em count!”

And he did, using only two of the three arrows she’d grabbed and killing each archer with a single shot. After that, he flopped onto the ground and dropped his bow. His part was done, now all that was left was those two enemies Keith was fighting. Hunk glanced up at the witch next to him, processing the fact that he was still casting two spells, both of which were no longer necessary. He looked like he’d passed out while standing, eyes shut and posture slumped.

“Taylor!” The man’s eyes flew open, and the stream of light from his hand wavered. “That’s enough, you can stop.” He blinked, mind too fuzzy to understand, before Hunk saw something click behind his gaze. Both the brightness spell and the protection spell stopped, and the witch collapsed onto his knees, wheezing and holding his chest.

Lance couldn’t speak. His throat was burning and no oxygen was reaching his lungs. He gripped the cloth around his chest, squeezing, like if he lifted the fabric from his skin, he’d somehow be able to breathe again. His head felt like someone had launched an electricity spell into his brain; it was excruciating to think. Eventually the air returned and so did his voice. His head was still spinning, but at least he wouldn’t suffocate.

When Keith observed that the whirring of his protection spell had ceased, he immediately feared the team’s healer had been killed. He may not have liked the guy, but he was willing to admit the witch was necessary to his squad’s success. The head knight's line of sight had whipped to where Pidge’s shield had been, and he noticed all three teammates catching their breaths. Taylor looked the worst off, but he was still conscious, so Keith let his attention fall back across the enemies in front of him.

He was at a bit of a stalemate with the two of them. They were enough in synch that, together, they managed to match the head knight in strength. He was left mainly on the defensive, with no openings to strike back. Luckily, his enemies weren’t the only ones who could work in pairs. Hunk had picked up his last free arrow and shot one of the enemies in the back, startling Keith with the arrowhead that pierced the soldier’s chest. Well, “soldier” since Keith still had his doubts. Even so, this left only one enemy. On her own, the poor fighter didn’t stand a chance, and Keith was about to finish her off, when Shiro shouted from the sidelines.

“Keith, wait!” The head knight pulled back, stopping mid strike. “Pidge, put a barrier around her. We might be able to get information out of her.”

The mage nodded. “On it!”

A barrier of lime green surrounded the enemy. While wiping sweat from his hairline, Keith had made an off handed comment about it being a questionable choice in color, but Pidge merely stuck her tongue out in reply. Everyone had caught their breaths and the whole team was making small talk about the new prisoner, save for Lance. He kept kneeling on the ground, willing the sharp pains in his head and limbs to go away and still feeling too winded to stand. Spells were the one thing he’d advertised being able to do for the team, so the witch knew he likely looked pathetic, having collapsed after only a few minutes of using them. But no matter how embarrassing his position was, he couldn’t open his eyes or the whole world started to swing back and forth.

He disregarded the pain, opening his eyes and guiding his body to stand, but the endeavor was unsuccessful. His back hit the ground, knocking what little air he had in his lungs back out, and he was left in the grass feeling even more winded than he had seconds prior. His arms and legs were sprawled across the dirt and his fingers were uprooting the greenery as a distraction from the pain. Pidge seemed to take pity on him and she offered Lance a hand, but the witch didn’t accept it. He shook his head, shutting his eyes again. It didn’t matter if he got help, everything still hurt too much to stand.

Lance was ready to let himself pass out, before he remembered his husband. The battle was over, so he knew Keith must have handled those four fighters, but he’d been too wrapped up in his own spells to witness it. He hadn’t seen if he was okay, if he needed healing, and now that Lance had thought of that, he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else. He forced himself up, despite the popping bones that were protesting the action. Whether Keith knew who he was or not, Lance was still determined to be a good husband. His eyes cracked open, squinting at the light flooding his senses.

“Does anyone need healing?” Pidge made an undignified noise at Lance’s question.

“Uh, you literally couldn’t stand about two seconds ago, there’s no way you can heal anyone right now,” she said.

Keith turned to give Lance a look that was almost amused. The witch flushed and made sure his hood was tight around his ears so no one could see the way they’d brightened. He continued gripping the fabric even after he knew it was secure. It was humiliating to have been a failure in front of his husband, to have been exposed as too weak to be a part of the team in front of the _one_ person he’d desperately wanted to impress.

“You can sit down for a while, Taylor,” Hunk offered, placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder, who began to blush even more, since Keith let out a laugh. Being found out was even less of an option, now. Lance _refused_ to let his husband know that the witch who’d barely been able to stay upright for a single battle was him. He could only handle this much shame because he was anonymous; if Keith knew he was Lance, he’d never hear the end of the teasing, for starters, and he’d probably die from the embarrassment. Or he’d wish he had.

Well, if he was being honest, the blow to his pride wasn’t really the only reason he was blushing. Keith had hunched forward when he chuckled, bringing a fist to his lips to cover the quiet snort. It was _adorable._ The noise came from low in his chest, all gruff and intimidating, yet the way his eyes crinkled and his grin peeked from below his hand were anything but. It was a perfect blend of charming mannerisms and enticingly masculine sounds.

And then Keith’s spine straightened and Lance’s throat got just as dry as it had been during the spells. The knight was running a hand through his hair, sliding his bangs out of his eyes. His grin had faded, but his lips were still parted and the way he tilted his head back revealed his Adam’s apple right as it bobbed. The lump in Lance’s throat shakily did the same. The sun was hitting the contour of Keith’s face _just right_ and-- oh, fuck, Lance was staring.

Maybe he did need to sit down.

He followed the team as they approached the collection of cottages they’d fought near. The prisoner was dragged along, too, though not as silently, since the woman was making quite a fuss, kicking and pounding against her barrier. Now that the Altean team had been discovered here, they didn’t care about being stealthy, so they didn’t protest the extra noise. They were far enough from the enemies that they were following for it not to be too big a deal. They also figured that no stealth meant there was no harm in checking out the inside of the cabins. All of them were empty of people, so Shiro, Keith, and Lance settled into one with the prisoner, while Hunk and Pidge went off to examine the others. Lance finally had the chance to rest in an actual chair.

“So,” Shiro began, tapping two fingers rhythmically along the table he was sitting at. He sounded a bit unprepared for an interrogation. “Care to tell us who you fight for?” The prisoner was flicking her cage, now, watching the green surface wobble with every touch of her fingertip. She relented, squishing her cheek against the palm of her hand and resting her elbow against the tabletop.

“Myself,” she answered, tone bored and annoyed. “Galra kingdom representatives have been givin’ us food an’ supplies in exchange for our services, so that’s why we attacked you, but ultimately I’m a pretty selfish gal. I have no real loyalties to anyone other than myself.”

Shiro hummed. “Did those representatives say anything else?”

“Somethin’ about us gettin’ some kinda privileges when the kingdom was reinstated.”

Lance had been _almost_ dozing off until he heard that. Shiro seemed to have thought it strange as well, since his eyes appeared more focused and his posture had become flawless. Lance looked lazily over to Keith, seeing if he’d done the same as Shiro. He hadn’t, he was sleeping with his temple resting on his fist and his hair draping over his eyes. _Not fair._ Lance wished he could look that cute while unconscious.

Keith thought Lance looked cute while he slept, too, but he would never admit to having purposely fought off his own drowsiness in order to watch his husband fall asleep, so Lance would never hear about how adorable the process was.

“Wait, reinstated? Zarkon is dead, there’s no one there to take the throne.” Shiro’s eyes shut in concentration. “Who’s going to bring it back to power?”

“Dunno, dude. I was just workin’ so I could eat, I don’t give a damn about their funky politics,” the prisoner drawled.

“Guess we’ve still gotta go after those fleeing Galra invaders, huh?” The one conscious knight groaned at Lance’s observation. “Anyway, what’re we gonna do with the prisoner?”

“Let her go,” the woman suggested. “Not like you’d be unable to take me down if I picked another fight.

Shiro narrowed his eyes, before saying, “fine, but only as we’re leaving.”

Keith was finally awake; he’d bolted upright a solid five minutes after the half baked interrogation ended. The head knight whipped his head to look around the room, a word Lance could read tumbling silently from his lips. _Lance._ And then his expression fell, disappointment present on his features. His eyes were drowsy, fogged over with a foam of sleepiness, but they also had a sadness within them that stung Lance’s heart. It didn’t remain long, however, as shortly after the sadness appeared, a steely resolve covered it as completely as Lance’s mask covered his face.

Hunk and Pidge returned and Keith cleared his throat to address the whole team. “We should spend the night here. The sun is setting and if we stay in the cottages, we don’t have to put up tents.”

Lance’s face was hot again. He wasn’t used to seeing his husband lead a team and the stern look on his face was more than a little attractive. It was a good thing he worked at his own store in Castle Town, because he wouldn’t last a day working for the crown. Not if he had to listen to Keith giving commands. He sounded so determined and formal and Lance was too much of a people pleaser to handle it. The witch wanted to spring to his feet and obey every one of his husband’s orders. And he knew how easy Keith was to tease; if they worked together, Lance wouldn’t be able to resist using a sultry tone when replying, “yes, sir!” Or, if nothing else, he was sure he’d find somewhere to squeeze in an innuendo. Maybe a sly comment like, “I love it when you push me around,” or something more subtle like, “anything for you, _captain.”_

And, damn, Lance’s current train of thought was making his fiery cheeks _so_ much worse.

The rest of the team had nodded and left the room to start some sort of early dinner, since their battle had gotten in the way of a lunch break and they were stopped for the night anyway. Only Keith and Lance sat at the table now. Even the prisoner had been taken to another room. Keith kept making motions as if he was trying to get up, but every time he did, he’d fall back into his seat with a wince. Eventually, the knight seemed to give up, huffing angrily and setting his hands on the table.

Meanwhile, Lance remained silent and motionless on the opposite end of the table. He was observing his husband’s struggle and debating how to bring it up. The witch knew why Keith was unable to get up; the man had been cut on the stomach and, by now, the adrenaline had worn off, so he was finally feeling the soreness of his wounds. He wanted to help, but Pidge had said he shouldn’t cast any more spells, and she was probably right because every muscle in Lance’s body was still burning. Then again, his husband needed him and Pidge wasn’t here to stop his foolish impulses.

“Keith.” The word came out too gentle again. It was hard not to speak like that when his husband was so obviously hurting, both physically and mentally. And it was equally hard not to cry when the head knight shot a glare in his direction at the tone. “Do your injuries need to be healed?”

The man let out a dismissive noise. “I’m fine. Besides, you can’t.” He shifted again, flattening his hand against the table and trying to lift himself up. Another cringe passed his countenance and he crumpled back into his chair. That injury was probably a lot worse than Lance initially thought.

“I can. Healing spells aren’t all that draining for me,” a lie. “I can manage just one, no problem,” another lie, “if it’ll help.” Lance was trying not to twitch nervously or wring his hands with all the lying. He didn’t mind wearing himself out if it meant Keith would be better off, but if his husband noticed the fact that he was lying, that he wasn’t ready to cast another spell, he’d probably reject the offer. Even if it was to help someone he didn’t like. Even if it was to help Taylor.

Despite believing the lies, Keith remained unswayed. “I don’t want _you_ to heal me.”

Now, perhaps Keith thought he was subtle in the way he slipped knives into the word _you_ and aimed them at the witch across the table. Or maybe he truly didn’t notice he’d said it the way he did, vicious and hurtful. But either way, Lance noticed it. And he hated it. He knew it wasn’t directed at him, not really, because he knew Keith would have never spoken that way had he known who he was truly talking to. And yet Lance still found himself hurting.

Hurting because that look in Keith’s eyes was cold and so strongly unlike the gentle and loving looks he usually got. Hurting because the way he flattened his mouth wasn’t anything like the caring smiles Lance had always appreciated. Hurting because he was reminded, once again, that the man across from him at the table wasn’t his husband. Not now. He was Lance’s husband and right now, Lance wasn’t Lance.

“Well, I’m the only one who can do it,” he snapped. It was harsher than he meant it to be. He was hiding his broken voice behind an angry one. Lance couldn’t decide if he was lucky or unlucky when Keith was unaffected by his frustrated tone. The knight simply scoffed, so Lance softened his voice again, just slightly. “Look, how much good do you think you’ll do your husband if you’re all beaten up like that? Do you really think you’re going to be able to save him when you can’t even get out of a chair?”

Finally, _finally,_ he got through to Keith. The knight had winced again, despite not having attempted to get up. He looked heartbroken for a second, mouth falling open in a shocked and wounded manner. Lance would swear he saw Keith’s lip quiver, just slightly, but he’d been too caught up in resisting his ever present need to comfort his husband to really tell. But then the head knight sucked in a gulp of air, his chest rising and face settling, and the momentary weakness on his features passed.

“You’re right,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’d,” Keith swallowed, shifting his gaze away from Lance, “I’d really appreciate it if you healed me.” And that was all the invitation the witch needed. He swiftly got up and made his way to his husband, hands already glowing, and stinging, with the spell. While Lance had to think about certain things to cast other spells, it was different with healing. It was the one type his mother made him absolutely master, so he could do it mindlessly.

That meant he could let his mind wander to other things, without worry that the spell would fail. So, as he spread his fingers a few inches above his lover’s stomach, he allowed himself to look at the man’s face. And as his fingers began to heal, he didn’t turn his line of sight away. He watched as Keith’s eyes closed and the pained creases between his eyebrows faded. He saw the tightness to his lips fall away. Sure, the head knight’s emotional turmoil was still there, but Lance felt a little lighter seeing the way peace flitted across his husband’s face.

And then the spell was done, the lingering pain in his hands relatively manageable, and Lance turned his gaze to the closed wound before Keith could catch him staring. The knight took another deep breath, this one rising deep in his stomach, and Lance went to pull away and give him space, but as he started to shift, a hand closed around the hood of his cloak.

Now Lance was panicking. He was certain Keith was going to pull it off. He was certain Keith would see his hair and recognize it. He was certain this would be where his cover was blown because this was _even closer_ than any of the other already-too-close calls. And then the fabric was tugged towards Keith’s face and his pulse got even faster. His hands quickly flew up to hold the sides of the hood to keep it from coming off. But he wasn’t quick enough.

Because the pulling had stopped and the hood remained on his head, with just a fistful of its cloth by Keith’s nose. Lance’s heartbeat began to slow. He was fine, he was fine, he was _fine._ But the man holding the hood didn’t appear to be. He’d taken another deep breath, sniffing the piece of Lance’s clothing he was holding. His eyes had fogged over again, returning to the glinting, sad shine they'd been before. Once again, he looked like he was about to cry.

“Your hood,” he said, as though those words alone would be enough to explain what he had done. The witch’s silence told him that they weren’t. “It smells like my husband.” And there went Lance’s heart again. He was back to panicking, feeling as though he was, once again, about to be discovered. He needed to think _fast_ if he wanted to survive this.

“Uh, gross? This old thing is dusty and all stuffy smelling. The fuck you tryin’ to say about your husband?” Yikes, okay, that was rough. More vulgar than he wanted, too. I mean, yeah, it was true. What _was_ Keith trying to say about him? Did he always smell like this?! Oh, nasty!

“I--what?!” At the very least, Keith seemed to have bought the outburst. He shoved the fabric back towards the witch’s head. “It does _not_ smell dusty _or_ stuffy! It smells like some dumbass, fancy shampoo! Oh, _nevermind_.” He forced himself up, no longer wincing at the action. Then, he stomped out to join the rest of Team Altea for dinner.

Lance trailed after, gripping the fabric Keith had held in one hand and the fabric over his chest in the other. His heart was still hammering too loudly. His fingertips had nearly gone numb and he was certain he was moments from an anxiety attack. Keith was too observant. Gods, he’d managed to smell Lance’s shampoo, even through hours of sweat and the gross scent of his cloak. How the hell did he think he could pull this off? Keith knew him too well.

Stopping in the doorway for only a moment, Lance gathered his bearings and finished his walk to the middle of the collection of buildings, where the team had a fire cooking more meat. He let himself fall between Keith and Pidge. He seemed to finally be a part of the team now, since they were including him in the conversation just as much as anyone else.

The sun set and the team fell silent. No one was ready to go to bed yet, but no one was talking, either. Lance got tired of the quiet and just as tired of the distressed look on Keith’s face. So he started another conversation. Turning to the head knight he was worried about, he figured there was only one thing Keith could talk about that might cheer him up. The very person he was missing. Lance suppressed a groan because this was going to be really weird for him.

“Tell me about him,” he breathed, relishing the adorably confused face he got from Keith in response to the vague statement. Lance grabbed Keith’s left hand in his gloved fingertips, which Keith looked like he was about to protest, but Lance merely tapped his wedding ring before releasing the hand. He hadn’t wanted to let go, though. And, yeah, he could have used his words to convey who he meant, but his instincts told him to reach out and he didn’t process them in time to stop himself. And Keith’s hands had been so warm, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the action.

“Oh,” Keith murmured, letting his hand tumble to his lap. Then, he held his left hand in his right and brought them both to his chest. He stared at the glittering ring for a moment, watching the campfire dance along its curved edge, while Lance mindlessly fingered his own ring through his glove. “He’s a lot sweeter than I am. He’s a tailor back in Castle Town.” And almost so quiet that Lance couldn’t hear, “I love him so much.”

“I l--” Lance stopped himself. Gods, he’d almost said it back. All that work to keep his identity a secret and he almost blew it like _that._ He cleared his throat and redirected his sentence. “I’m sure he loves you just as much.” And everyone was looking at Lance, just slightly confused. “I mean, c’mon, how could he not? You’re being all dashing and chasing after him to save him from danger! Man, I’d _kill_ to have a hottie like you doin’ that for me.” _Nice save._

Keith dragged the inside of his wrist along the edge of his nose, sniffling. “I know he loves me, too.” And before Lance could savor the sweetness of the conversation, Hunk butted in.

“Yeah, we know you know,” and then Hunk turned to Lance. “Because he’s always talking about how Lance is doing such sweet things to show Keith he loves him. Oh, and Keith always talks about how kind he is. And how handsome!” Pidge was making kissy faces and noises next to Lance’s ear. “And, one time, he even told us about how Lance wore this lingerie that was just--”

Keith stood up, face as red as the campfire they were seated around. “For the love of,” Hunk had stopped the inappropriate story, but wouldn’t stop listing all the nice things Keith had said about Lance. “Hunk, shut up!” The archer bursted out laughing and ceased his slander of the head knight’s name.

Shiro suggested they all go to bed immediately after and Lance was glad. Because behind his mask, his bottom lip was trembling and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he started to cry. So he shoved himself off his spot on the grass and headed to one of the cabins. Tears were wetting his cheeks, dripping from his chin, and wetting the front of his cloak. He didn’t know why the fact that Keith talked about him made him so happy. He didn’t know why it made his chest hurt as much as it did. He didn’t know why the tears wouldn’t stop, why it all felt so warm, why the ache in his heart was so pleasant.

But as Pidge joined Lance to room with him for the night, he knew one thing with perfect clarity and certainty.

He had the best husband he could have ever asked for, and he loved that husband more than anything in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, I always love to hear!


	6. The Pain of Not Knowing Until It's Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, not gonna lie, my cat fell asleep on my wrist and I didn't wanna wake her, so I procrastinated with this chapter a bit lol  
> But it's done!!  
> :)  
> Have fun reading!

Pidge woke everyone up way too early the next morning. The sun was hours away from peeking over the horizon, but she was already making a racket and nudging her roommate awake. Lance groaned, before flipping over so his back faced the kneeling woman, bringing the whole of his sleeping bag with him. He might have slept enough to recover from his magic overuse, but he wasn’t well rested yet. He wasn’t about to get up. Mask or no mask, he was still going to get his beauty sleep.

Normally, Lance started his days groggy and heavy lidded. It was rare he woke up before his husband, so Keith was usually the one to wake him, which also meant that Lance would usually tug whoever woke him into bed. Pidge gripped his arm again. The familiar shake of his shoulder made him almost think he was back at home with his husband and his comfortable bed. And for just a single millisecond, he considered pulling Keith into bed with him, like usual. But in his sleep addled mind, he finally remembered where he was and who was really waking him up. His eyes flew open and he shot straight up, pulse making his fingers shake. He realized he didn’t have the luxury of letting his guard down; he needed to make sure his mask stayed on.

The mage stood up and took a step back, startled by the sudden movement. She didn’t know why he was so jumpy, it wasn’t like she was going to hurt him. Because if she was, the woman assured herself, she wasn’t some softie who would wake him up first. “Fair fight” her _ass,_ Pidge was in it to win it. But that wasn’t what she was planning, anyway.

“Okay, so, Taylor,” she started, sounding giddy. “Ya know those Galra we’ve been chasing, the ones who came to Castle Town?” Lance rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, so he knew Pidge would notice. “Okay, so I sent a scout.”

Lance grunted, sliding his fingers into the holes of his mask so he could rub his eyes. “A scout? I thought it was just the five of us.”

“Oh, like a magical scout.” Lance was really too tired for this. He didn’t know nearly as much about magic as Pidge did, apparently, because he hadn’t even known that was a thing. “Anyway, I sent a scout yesterday, midmorning, and apparently, according to my scout, they haven’t moved at all since then. I think they’re about to meet with whoever is giving them orders.”

The witch laid back down and tugged his sleeping bag over his head. “Great, go tell the head knight, then. Lemme sleep.” He could practically feel Pidge pouting from her position next to him, so he pulled the makeshift bedding tighter. “Why haven’t you left?”

“Keith is scary in the morning, I don’t wanna wake him up.”

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” the witch said. But then he made the mistake of uncovering his gaze and he came face to masked face with the widest, most watery pair of puppy eyes he’d ever seen. One day, he and Keith would adopt kids, and Lance would be the worst father in the world because he could _not,_ for the life of him, say no to that face. She looked so young and helpless, though he knew she was not even slightly the latter, and there was no way he could deny her whatever it was she wanted. Maybe Keith and Lance would just adopt Pidge. She might have been only a few years younger, but she was the _size_ of a child. “Fine, I’ll wake him up.”

Pidge grinned and left the cabin to wake everyone, other than Keith, up, since they’d undoubtedly be eating breakfast and leaving after Keith knew the urgency they needed to act with. She’d gone outside happily, but Lance dragged his feet at the idea of waking his husband up. He’d only done so a few times before and he was only spared the grumpiness of morning Keith because of a husband/boyfriend bias. As Taylor, he could easily get a fist to the face. So, as pretty as the head knight was as he slept, Lance wasn’t looking forward to seeing him this morning.

He swung his legs out of his sleeping bag, wiggling his toes inside his socks, and then he grabbed his boots and began putting them on. If he was being honest with himself, he’d admit that he was tying the laces extra slowly so he would get a few more minutes to be alive before his untimely death at the hands of someone who was indubitably _not_ a morning person. But there came a time when there were no more loops to tighten or strings to adjust, and he begrudgingly stood up.

The sun still hadn’t come up, so the dirt was cold to walk against, even with his shoes. And everywhere he looked, Lance could see clouds of fog hanging, glowing forebodingly in the moonlight. He hated the way owls and crickets were making spooky noises, solidifying the horrible idea that Lance was secretly in a horror novel. Made sense, with the monster he was about to face.

Keith had his own cabin, since Pidge and Lance were the only ones rooming together. Unless, however, you counted Shiro and the prisoner as roommates. The head knight was taking up as much space as possible while he slept, his arms spread wide outside of the sleeping bag, while his legs remained the only part of his body actually covered by the fabric. His hair was a complete disaster, knotted and folded underneath parts of his head. His face had red lines where the wrist of his armor must have rested while he slept at some point. Lance cringed at the idea of sleeping in metal armor like that. But he still thought his husband looked an unfair amount of beautiful.

When the witch squatted next to his husband, he began debating how he wanted to wake the man. Normally, had he been at home and it had been one of the rare mornings when he woke up first, he probably would have woken him up with a kiss to the forehead or something equally romantic. Obviously that wasn’t an option. Besides, he looked way too unconscious for that to wake him, anyway. Looks can be deceiving.

Without thinking, Lance brushed the bangs from Keith’s eyes. The knight hummed appreciatively in his sleep and Lance realized what he’d done and yanked his hand back. But Keith’s hand reached up, fingers gripping the air until they found the front of the witch’s cloak and tugged it down. The brunet went with it, his mask hitting Keith’s chestplate with a sharp noise.

“Lance,” the knight muttered, wrapping an arm around said witch’s back. Lance curled away from the touch, pushing his hands against the chestplate he’d hit in a futile attempt to get out of Keith’s grasp. His husband had always bothered him about working out more and he really wished he’d listened because he could do nothing to escape the tight limbs around his waist. Not to mention, the way he curved his spine to avoid the familiar touch just brought him closer to Keith’s torso, and Keith ended up moving his arms along with Lance, so he didn’t escape those, either. He’d managed to get himself even more trapped. “Lance, five more minutes.”

He was terrified. Keith had said his name, but whether he said it in a tired haze, or because he knew, Lance wasn’t sure. Then his husband was sliding his hands up his back. Nevermind the way it made him shudder contentedly, it was mortifying. His hands stopped on the back of Lance’s neck and they drew him closer, pulling his head, despite the way he struggled, toward Keith’s. The knight remained half asleep until a mask clonked against his forehead, instead of the warm flesh he was expecting. His eyes opened slowly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. And then he saw the witch in his arms and he was completely awake.

“Oh, Gods,” he spewed, shoving Lance off and scuttling backwards until he hit a wall. “What were you doing?!”

Lance had landed on his back, his head knocking against the concrete floor in a way that still had him wincing. He rubbed the spot through his hood. “What was _I_ doing?! You’re the one who pulled me close and started… started _canoodling!_ ”

Keith looked like he was about to cry. “I would _never!_ What kind of disloyal creep do you think I am?!” He stood up, storming over to where Lance was scattered about the ground. He pointed an accusatory finger at the witch, heating his tone as he said, “I would never betray my husband like that!” And then Lance understood why he looked so upset.

His husband thought he’d pulled a complete stranger into bed with him and he felt guilty. The head knight thought he’d just betrayed the trust Lance put in him and he was furious with himself. Perhaps Lance should have been just as mad at Keith. He had, in a way, tried to cuddle with a stranger, after all. But Lance knew Keith hadn’t meant it like that. While asleep, he’d thought Taylor was Lance and he’d acted on his instincts. Well, Taylor _was_ Lance, but Keith didn’t know that. He’d made an honest, innocent mistake and the way he immediately felt so horrible about it made it impossible for Lance to be upset with him.

“Hey, I can assure you, you _did_ do that.” He saw Keith’s knees wobble. “But I think you thought I was your husband! You said his name,” he added quickly, trying not to slip up and say _‘my_ name’ instead of _‘his_ name’. “It was an accident, I’m sure your husband would understand.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Taylor,” Keith said, finally calming down. But his lack of anger just made him look even guiltier and Lance decided that was far worse. “I was dreaming about him and I guess I just… ya know.” Lance nodded, swinging himself up to stand in front of his husband. He overestimated how much momentum he needed and stumbled forward, hitting his mask against Keith’s chin.

“Oof, sorry.” Keith waved him off, still looking a little dejected and guilt ridden. “Hey,” Lance said, smiling a hidden grin. “Good news! I came to wake you up because Pidge said she thinks those Galra we were following are about to meet with their leader. Which means--”

Keith looked thrilled. “We might find Lance!” He tied his sheath to his waist and began to hurriedly roll up his sleeping bag, before stuffing it in the backpack he’d been carrying the day before. Then he shoved past Lance and started towards the door, carrying the sack once more.

“Whoa, uh, one track mind. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘finding out who ordered your capture,’ but to each, his own and all that,” the witch muttered, following Keith outside.

The rest of the team was awake and ready to go. By looking at Hunk, Lance could see he’d already gathered all the reusable arrows from the battlefield; his quiver was stuffed as full as it could be. He was eating, too, so Lance sat down to eat as well. Keith did not, grabbing his roll and eating it while continuing forward.

“No time to waste,” he said, mouth still full of bread. “Walk and eat.” Team Altea scrambled to stand up and follow. The prisoner they'd captured didn’t follow, however, clearing her throat expectantly. Pidge narrowed her eyes, hesitantly dropping the barrier and watching the woman just as warily. The previously captured enemy didn’t care, sprinting off in the opposite direction the moment she was free. Shiro wore a relieved expression, seemingly pleased that the prisoner hadn’t decided to get back at the team.

It was still dark after they left camp. The leaves on the trees looked black, like oil dripping from branches of charcoal, and the moonlight was no longer filtering through, as it had been back in the clearing with the cabins. Lance was walking next to Keith at the front of the group, too nervous in the darkness to be anywhere else, while the rest of the team walked behind the two. The only reason he knew where Keith was going and how to follow him was the dull glow of Pidge’s magic trail on the ground and the heat of his husband at his side. It made him anxious to be so blind, but Keith seemed to know where he was going.

“Can you _see_ like this?” Lance’s tone was incredulous. The knight was silent for a few seconds and Lance only heard the clanking of his armor as he walked.

Without Lance seeing, Keith had nodded at the question, before he realized that no one else could see in the darkness. “Yeah,” he answered verbally. “I think it has to do with the alchemic experiment from the Galra kingdom, but I don’t really know. That serum gave me a lot of weird traits, so I’d assume that’s it. The alchemists who made it were killed, though, so it’s anyone’s guess.”

Lance was surprised to hear all this. Keith had told him about the serum and his history as a Galra citizen, but he’d never told him what the serum had done, aside from making him a stronger fighter. They’d been married four years, yet Lance had never once heard about seeing in the dark or the other “weird traits” Keith mentioned and, to be completely honest, he was a little disappointed. Both because Keith hadn’t told him and because he hadn’t noticed on his own.

So that one time he threw Keith a surprise birthday party, the reason Keith hadn’t been surprised when he turned the lights on was that he’d seen everyone hiding in the dark? That explained a lot.

At least Lance wasn’t the only one not sharing everything, though.

“Whoa, that’s pretty rad,” Lance said, proud he could keep up his Taylor attitude, even while shocked. “What’s your favorite superhuman power, then?”

Keith laughed a little, “I guess I like being able to see in the dark. It makes it easy to see how cute my husband is while he sleeps.” The witch next to him started coughing.

Lance was shocked to hear Keith talking about him so openly and he found himself wondering if the knight was normally this bold with strangers. He’d always assumed Keith didn’t talk about him at all, like his husband thought of him as a sort of home life detail that was supposed to _stay_ at home and not come with him to work. He’d always thought that if he ever visited Keith at work, all his coworkers would be shocked to hear he’d been married at all. When he got to the castle and met the queen, it was obvious that wasn’t the case, and the previous night’s conversation had further enlightened him to the fact that Keith had told his coworkers quite a bit (maybe even too much, judging by that story Hunk almost got into). But he’d never considered Keith talking about Lance to _strangers._ It was embarrassing.

And flattering.

Eventually the rest of the group woke up enough to begin hushed chatter, but neither he nor Keith participated. They’d fallen into another bout of comfortable silence. Lance was just enjoying the warmth at his side. In that moment, he was content with spending the rest of eternity just as he was, inches from his husband and basking in his body heat. And then, barely audible over the murmurs of conversation, Keith started to hum.

Now, Lance had learned a lot about Keith in the last forty eight hours, each new thing more unexpected than the last. Yet, even though he’d already learned an overwhelmingly large number of shocking tidbits about his husband, this one had to be the most unanticipated. Who was this man?! Keith Kogane didn’t _hum!_ He was strong and bold and _emo,_ not some sweet, little grandma baking cookies. So imagine the look on Lance’s face when he heard that his husband did, in fact, hum.

Lance was the only one who could hear it and he turned to the head knight with the most flabbergasted look on his face. He couldn’t make Keith’s face out in the darkness, but he knew Keith could see his, so he flung his gaze back in front of him. If Keith didn’t know he’d heard, he’d probably continue, and Lance wanted to soak this moment up as much as he could. If he strained his ears, he might be able to make out what song it was…

But the conversation behind them stopped, and so did the humming. _Dammit._ The witch began to pay attention to what he was _supposed_ to be doing again and looked to his feet, searching for the glimmering trail he had been following, but found nothing. Had that been why the conversation stopped?

Pidge made a noise behind him, catching his attention. “The trail stopped, so technically, the soldiers should be right here.” It was too dark for Lance to tell if anyone was nearby. He was about to offer to cast another brightness spell, but Keith spoke up before he could.

“There’s no one here,” he said, “I even checked the trees.” Right, his _superhero_ husband could see in the dark. The little shit.

The witch began to think about where the soldiers could have gone. He had limited knowledge of tracking spells, but based on what he knew, there were only a few ways the trails stopped. One, if the soldiers had died. Of course, in that case, the bodies would be at the end of the trail, unless someone moved them. Unlikely. Two, if the soldiers had cast some kind of counter spell. That was also unlikely, however, since Pidge had made sure the trail was only visible to the team that left Altea and, later, Lance. So the soldiers would have had no reason to cast a spell like that. With those two eliminated, there was only one option left. There was a sort of anti-tracking barrier around the upcoming area.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Lance said. “Pidge, put a tracking spell on me.” She did, and Lance took a step back, watching a separate line follow the movement. Then, he took two steps forward, passing the point at which the other pathway disappeared. And his did the same. He grinned, feeling especially intelligent.

“Oh, wow,” Hunk said, in a gently surprised tone. “Now, what does that mean?”

“It means someone anticipated our spell and put a barrier around the forest ahead. It didn’t stop my scout, though, and that should have followed the trail and then continued straight until it found an enemy. So, the soldiers should be straight ahead.” And with that, everyone continued in the same direction. They were silent this time, the only sounds were their rustling fabric and armor, the crunching of fallen leaves, and the standard noises of the forest.  

“Do you think the barrier is here because the meeting spot is nearby?” Lance’s whispered question wasn’t answered by the others. It was answered by a conversation up ahead. Team Altea immediately scattered, everyone moving behind different trees. The sun was just starting to rise, so Lance could make out a group of shaded figures up ahead. He hoped his team wasn’t silhouetted by the brightness blooming behind them.

“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, the attack was unsuccessful.” Lance was squinting at the space ahead, trying to figure out which of the barely visible masses was speaking. But before he managed to solve that mystery, someone else was speaking.

“Then why have you returned? Have you forgotten the dictum of our people?” This voice was making his skin crawl. It made words sound more like hisses and Lance swore the air along his skin froze when he heard it.

“We were chased out, Your Majesty,” the first voice was pleading now, trying to ease the other speaker to some sort of appeasement. They didn’t use their title as a form of respect, but rather, as a statement of fear. Whoever this royal was, they clearly weren’t a beloved leader.

“Victory or death,” the monarch snarled.

“Your Majesty,” a third voice said. Finally, the sun had risen just enough for Lance to truly see the people conversing. There were three soldiers and one other person who was, similarly to Lance, hidden beneath a cloak. He could only assume that figure was the one giving the orders. “We believe we were followed. We had a soldier travel a mile or so behind to warn us of this, but they never rejoined the group, so we think they’ve been killed.”

Everyone on Team Altea, save Lance, turned to give Keith a bothered look. That must have been the soldier Keith alerted of their presence when he was shouting at Queen Allura. The only reason Lance wasn’t giving his husband the same exasperated glare was because he hadn’t been there to witness the event. Despite all the harsh stares, the head knight remained focused on the enemy. His senses were searching for one thing and nothing else. Lance.

His eyes were scanning the area ahead. He could see the ruins of a town, collections of trees and bushes, and the enemies they were after. But he couldn’t find who he was looking for. So, he listened. For his name, his husband’s name, or any mention of a hostage at all, but nothing of the sort was woven into the conversation.

“You knew you were being followed, yet you still returned? What kind of half-witted inbreds are you?!” The cloaked figure turned towards the rising sun, looking directly at the line of trees in which Team Altea was hiding. But there was no movement after that. No prepared attacks or surprised steps backward. Just silence and anxiety inducing stares.

Then the monarch lifted a hand, nails long and pointed, and aimed it at the team’s hiding spot. Lance thought they were safe, since they were still shrouded in the shade of the trees. But then the royal shifted the clawed hand and the area was illuminated. Lance brought his wrists to block his eyes, bright colors splotched on his closed eyelids from the sudden burst of light. He was sure everyone else was shielding their eyes as well, but the hooded figure across the forest still managed to recognize their covered faces.

“Well, perhaps your mission wasn’t a complete failure, since you’ve brought me The Weapon anyway.” And just like that, Lance was out of his moment of shock. _The Weapon._ That meant Keith. He opened his eyes and squinted through the waves of light, trying to find the royal. And he did. But he also found another hand preparing a spell.

So he warned the team, “Pidge, shield, NOW!” The woman erected a shield blindly, only covering about half of the team. Lance picked up the slack just in time, casting his own spell to protect his remaining teammates, right as the royal’s lightning attack was fired. It hit the shield, and for the first few seconds, everything was fine. But Lance watched with frightened eyes as the electricity climbed the barrier, inching towards the edges. If it consumed the whole thing, it would have nowhere else to go other than the sources. Meaning Lance and Pidge. Before Lance could think of a loophole and a solution, the lightning shot into his veins and he screamed. His voice died quickly as he passed out. Pidge’s eyes were still closed, so she hadn’t even known it was coming.

Both of the monarch's spells stopped at the same time, right as the witch had screamed. Keith opened his eyes at the same moment, turning towards his teammates at the exact second they collapsed. He saw Hunk quickly lurch forward, scooping the unconscious Pidge into his arms, before he bolted in another direction. Keith could see he was headed towards one of the buildings in the ruins up ahead, probably to climb the roof in an attempt to get to higher ground.

That left the witch, unconscious and vulnerable in the grass. Keith’s gaze darted between him and the enemy soldiers now charging at the team, trying to decide whether to attack or defend. Luckily, the decision was made for him when Shiro picked the team healer up and darted towards a different collapsed building.

Now Keith was alone with three well trained enemies and a monarch mage. He could do this. He drew his sword, sprinting towards the enemies, but right as he swung his blade at one, a ball of electricity appeared in the corner of his eye. The knight stumbled out of the way of the attack, just barely missing it. The other soldier didn’t hesitate, however, and followed Keith’s withdrawn attack with one of his own, but he followed through. Keith barely managed to dodge it, and when the other two enemies joined the fray, he found himself on the defensive.

He could not do this.

Shiro had dropped Lance off in an abandoned house. It was within sight of the battlefield, but enough out of the way to keep him hidden. Half the structure seemed to be missing, and there was a huge hole in the wall facing the enemies, so Shiro nestled the witch in the corner, where he would be out of the way of any stray or misfired spells that slipped through the opening. Then, the knight rejoined Keith in the battlefield. He could see the younger knight was outnumbered and overpowered, struggling to merely dodge the incoming swings of his enemy’s weapons.

Keith was getting backed more and more up. He couldn’t keep going at the pace he was at; the cuts were getting closer to landing fatal hits. The knight took a faulty step backwards and his leg crumpled, ankle giving out and sending him tumbling towards the ground. In that moment, he knew he was as good as dead. He watched one of the enemies bring their sword down with all the added force of years of grueling, Galra training. No matter how quickly he might have tried to bring his blade up to block, it wouldn’t have been fast enough, and Keith was about to resign himself to his fate, when the soldier dropped their weapon. It landed to the side of Keith, and their body followed after, arrowhead piercing the front of their skull.

The head knight turned to the rooftop he’d seen Hunk run towards, and saw his ally was there, providing backup. And then he saw Shiro, sliding to a stop by the remaining two sword fighters and instantly jumping into action. His sword strokes weren’t exactly the neatest, but they forced the enemies to retreat enough for Keith to get himself up.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

With the added help of Shiro and Hunk, Keith was faring much better. His ankle was tender, but he’d manage for the time being. He could get it healed after the battle. He lunged at the enemies with newfound strength and speed, reversing the roles they’d been in earlier. No longer was he running and on the defensive; now, he was ruthless and determined in his swings.

The two knights ended up splitting apart, each taking one of the remaining soldiers. These soldiers had powerful armor and would have been better handled with magic as a result, but both the witch and the mage were unconscious, so Keith had to make do with his sword. Unless… He looked to the cloaked figure and they fired another electric shot at his side. Thinking as strategically as he could, Keith ran around his enemy and pushed them into the attack. The metal of the soldier’s armor and the electricity of the attack made for a combination that proved deadly. Keith smirked, proud of working smarter instead of harder.

Shiro was still fighting his enemy the old fashioned way, swinging and blocking and finding himself rather stuck in the endless repetition of an even match. Keith sprinted up behind the enemy, purposely turning his back to the royal firing magic. The monarch fell for his trap, launching a projectile at what they must have thought was Keith’s defenseless and unaware backside. When he heard the pulsating of the electricity getting close, he pulled out of the way and let the shot go straight into the remaining soldier’s backside. They met the same fate as the last.

Without so much as a pause for a breath, Keith sprinted toward the final enemy, the cloaked mage. Shiro was right on his tail. The head knight swung a heaving attack at the royal’s head, putting all his weight into the blow, and the monarch swayed to the side to dodge. The movement was so hasty and sharp, their hood fell off, exposing the hair cascading over their shoulders and the crown atop their head.

Upon seeing the face of the former queen of the Galra kingdom, Shiro stopped his advance. The sun was golden behind his head, and he watched the light reflect off the surface of the queen’s crown, making her hair shine much the same way he was sure his own did in the glow of the rising sun. Keith was unfazed by the woman’s identity, preparing another attack already, so Haggar aimed her next spell at the startled Shiro instead. He didn’t come back to his senses in time to dodge, and the electric shock of the attack left him too dazed to stand. He fell to his knees.

Keith was ready to finish Haggar off, his sword aimed at the crown that sat so proudly atop her head. And the woman didn’t have time to dodge. She couldn’t conjure a spell, she couldn’t get out of the way; she was a sitting duck and Keith was ready to be her Grim Reaper. But before he could finish his strike, another figure saw an opening and took the shot.

There weren’t three soldiers, there were four. One had simply been tucked away in the ruins of one building or another, hiding until the most opportune moment to strike. And they got their opportune moment. The archer had fired a single arrow with absolutely flawless precision. It wedged itself in the exposed fabric over Keith’s abdomen, then into the flesh beneath, and then back through the fabric along his back. Keith had dropped his sword the moment the pain struck, failing to land his fatal slice.

The pain was so much worse than anything he could have ever imagined. But somehow, the sting of failure managed to hit his heart harder. He felt a wave of grief when he considered the fact that with his death on this battlefield, he’d never be able to save Lance. Gods, he would do anything just to _see_ him again, at this point. He was going to die without ever having the chance to start a family with the man he loved. He was going to die without ever having the chance to see his husband smile again, or hear him laugh again. He was going to die without Lance.

It made him sick to think about. Even sicker than when he looked down and saw the blood seeping around the arrow, just barely trickling out of his gut. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more than to see his husband. To kiss him and tell him he loved him; to say the one goodbye that mattered more than any of the others. But on the other hand, he would rather die painfully and alone than have Lance have to watch the process. He knew Lance would be there, crying and trying to help. His husband would be desperate and heartbroken, and Keith couldn’t bear witnessing that. The guilt from that alone would kill him.

So, he made peace with his demise.

But Haggar wasn’t done with him yet.

She approached him, slowly and eerily, a crooked smile falling across her lips. “Now, I know it hurts, but I can’t have you dying on me. I still need to extract The Weapon.” The queen had whispered the words, so quietly that Keith could hardly hear it over his own pain and the thrumming of blood in his ears. She bent forward, gripped Keith’s hair, and dragged him up. The man did nothing to stop her, knowing he didn’t stand a chance without his sword, which laid abandoned on the grass a few feet away. He couldn’t stop her, even if he tried.

It was at that moment Lance woke up. His eyes fluttered open, flicking around his unfamiliar surroundings with uncertainty. Then the seconds before his unconsciousness returned to his mind, and he flew up. Noticing the hole in the wall a few feet away, he peered through, and the scene he saw was from his nightmares. Someone he didn’t know was holding Keith by his hair with long and menacing claws, and his husband was on the brink of death, an arrow going clean through his stomach.

Stumbling to step through the crumbled opening in the side of the building, Lance reached an arm out towards the duo. “Wait!” His husband was almost dead, but the way he shifted his eyes to Lance was very much alive and healing spells could very well still save him. The brunet thought Haggar was going to finish Keith off, right in front of him. If Lance had known her intention wasn’t that at all, he probably never would have made the offer he did. “Please, let me heal him. If you do, I swear, you can kill me or whatever you like. I’ll let you. Just, for the love of-- let me heal him. Please.”

Haggar watched the desperation in Lance’s eyes, and so did Keith. The former immediately knew what was going on, while the latter was in too much pain to even consider what it could be. He had no idea why someone who’d just met him two days ago was sacrificing his life for him. But Haggar had done her research. She’d learned all she could about Keith’s new life in Altea, and her knowledge included the existence of his husband.

When the attack overpowered Lance’s shield, it had run up his hands first, tearing through one of his gloves. It revealed a shining, gold band around his ring finger and, looking down, Haggar saw the same piece of jewelry upon Keith’s hand. So, she accepted the brunet’s proposal. She figured, if nothing else, Keith would be too grief stricken over his husband’s death to fight back and she’d get The Weapon with even more ease. Without a pesky, little witch trying to stop her.

She nodded and Lance sprinted forward.

By this point, Pidge had woken up as well, so she and Hunk had come down from atop their perch. They made their way over to where Shiro was just starting to come to. When they reached the spot, the three stood next to each other as they wordlessly observed the tragic scene unfolding before them. They could only hope their healer had an actual plan and wasn’t simply planning to die.

“Taylor.” Keith’s voice was raspy and weak, but harsh. “What the hell are you doing? Why the hell-- we don’t _know_ each other!” Lance said nothing, wincing as Haggar ripped the arrow out of Keith and the knight screamed. She placed him on the grass while Lance fell gingerly to his knees beside him. He was crying and he refused to speak as a result; his voice would give out and he didn’t want what could very easily be his last words to Keith coming out shaky and undecipherable.

The spell tingled in his fingertips and Keith was healed before he had the chance to lose a dangerous amount of blood. Lance heard Haggar shifting to pick Keith up again, so he started to do what he’d planned to do from the start. Launching a fire spell at her throat, he managed to stun the queen and get her to stagger back, giving him enough time to slip his arm under Keith’s spine. He helped his husband up, before shoving him harshly towards Shiro. The knight caught the weakened man, and Lance went to join the safety by the rest of the team, but he didn’t manage to get there before Haggar recovered.

But he was okay with that.

Because Keith was okay.

He was no longer injured, he was out of the queen’s grasp.

And that made it all okay.

Haggar yanked him back by his hood, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care about the way his hair was now visible. He was choking on the collar of his cloak, his hands instinctively lifting to the abusive fabric, and he let himself get tugged backwards, if for no other reason than the few sweet milliseconds of oxygen it got him. His head tilted back when Haggar tugged the hood again.

Keith was watching with wide eyes. He couldn’t believe that Taylor would take a risk like that for him, for starters. But more confusing still, was the way that, even though he could only see a couple strands of Taylor's hair, they were so familiar to him. And then his eyes drifted away from the chestnut locks and into the eyes of his enemy. He found himself even more befuddled. The woman didn’t look the slightest bit concerned.

“Oh, no matter,” she said, voice strained at the effort of holding her prisoner captive through his struggles. “This one will still get me what I want.” Shiro took a step forward, lips curving around some unspoken question. Haggar took a step back to compensate. “After all, if I have this one, I have no doubt The Weapon will turn himself in. All on his own.”

Keith wasn’t going to say he wouldn’t. He didn’t like Taylor, but he wasn’t going to let _anyone_  die in his stead. Even though he didn’t want Taylor to die, however, he also didn’t want to hand the serum in his veins over to Haggar. It was a dilemma for him, so he didn’t know why Haggar was so sure of what he would choose to do.

The queen recognized the confusion on Keith’s face. “Oh,” she said, before beginning to chuckle quietly to herself. “Oh, you don’t know, do you?” The laughing stopped suddenly, insincerely. She reached a single nail to the knotted ribbon at the back of Lance’s head and undid the loops holding his mask on. The mass of clay slipped off his face and hit the ground.

Keith recognized the face immediately. He knew that jawline. He knew that nose. He knew the curve of those lips, the freckle under that cheekbone, the scar on that temple. The head knight didn’t even register the mask that hit the ground and fell apart upon impact, he was already lunging forward. He didn’t have his sword, but all he could think was how he needed to get to Lance. He’d taken Shiro’s blade from his hands, since his own was still out of reach. But if he was fast enough, Lance wouldn’t be beyond his grasp. He could still get to him.

But Haggar was faster. She pulled Lance between herself and Shiro’s stolen blade and Keith came to a halt so hastily, the others could almost be sure smoke had risen at the friction of his heels on the grass. The head knight growled, but the queen in front of him laughed. She swirled her clawed hand and a portal opened.

Stepping towards it, she hissed, “I’ll be at the Galra castle. If you feel like cooperating, you’re welcome to join me, Weapon.” And she stepped inside and out of sight, the portal closing easily behind her.

Keith’s world was spinning. He didn’t understand what had just happened. Losing his grip on Shiro’s sword, he failed to get any air to his lungs. He dropped to his knees, staring at his _useless_ hands for a beat, before he threw his head back and let out a wail of pure anguish. He screamed until his throat was raw and he’d used up the last of the air in his chest. Then, Keith felt tears bubble in his eyes, and he howled again, but this time he said, “Lance!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahah, don't kill me in the comments
> 
> (P.S. I might be a little slow with updates in a couple days, but I assure you, they WILL get written because I am invested in this story! Sorry in advance for the extra wait time ;-;)


	7. Missing What's Been Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's update time!!!  
> Hope the wait was worth it!!

Keith was standing at his front door with his sword strapped to his back and waiting for his husband to join him outside. The heat of the sun was pleasant, but the star was still too low in the sky to land more than a sliver of its light on the knight. Castle Town’s houses and stores shaded his doorway except for a single line of sunshine that Keith was perched in, like a cat would have done. No amount of light could chase the winter and its icy breath away, though, so the man was left hoping his husband would come out soon and share his body heat. He stuck his head back into his house, the house he and Lance shared, and looked at the grandfather clock leaning against the wall.

“Lance, we’re gonna be late,” he chided, turning his face back to the nipping cold. No response came from inside the building. Keith sighed, shutting the door and walking a couple yards until he hit another doorway. He opened it, a bell rang as he did, and Keith eyed the inside of the store with an intent to find his husband. Unsurprisingly, there the man was, flitting about the room and lifting different stacks of clothing and boxes with spools of thread. “Lance, what are you doing? Your shop is closed for the day.”

The brunet’s head shot up briefly, expression nervous and frantic, before it turned right back to the shifting cloth and supplies. “I’m looking for something,” he said, voice distant with a focus aimed elsewhere. Keith stepped into the room and spun to close the door slowly behind him, so it wouldn’t slam. The bells rang again. He wandered over to where his husband was searching and dragged the man away from the counter he was disorganizing. Lance squeaked, reaching his fingers back towards the surface.

“What could you possibly be looking for here?” Keith wrapped his arms about his husband’s waist, pressing his nose to the shorter man’s neck. His skin was smooth and it smelled like some fancy plant or fruit Keith couldn’t identify, but knew Lance would be able to name with startling accuracy and speed. The brunet began slapping the arms around his stomach, gently smacking the juncture of Keith’s hand and his opposite wrist, the point at which the loop of his arms came together. “C’mon, really, what would you need from in here today?”  
“A thing!” He struggled more to get back to his sloppy counter, wriggling his hips until Keith tightened his hold. He threw his head back with a disgruntled noise. “Keith,” he whined. “I just gotta find this and then we can go.” The knight let his husband go, following his rushed steps to the counter at his own slower pace. Keith placed his lips on the nape of Lance’s neck.

“Why can’t you find this thing when we get back?” He breathed against the tanned skin beneath his lips, smiling when Lance’s spine straightened in response. The tailor stepped to the side, leaving Keith in his search of another part of the room. But the knight followed, slipping his frozen hands into Lance’s back pockets when he caught up to him. Lance started to slide rolls of measuring tape and bowls of pins along the shelves he was at.

“Um,” he hesitated, bumping his butt out in what Keith could only assume was an attempt to get him to remove his hands from the brunet’s pockets. It was unsuccessful. His hands were cold and the pockets were warm; he had no reason to pull away. “The tournament is good for business. So, I have to bring something with me, in case someone asks about-- hey!”

Keith had begun to kiss Lance’s neck again, slowly tracing the smooches closer to his ear. When he got there, he’d taken the lobe between his teeth and cut his husband’s explanation short. “You’re the only tailor in Castle Town, you don’t really need to advertise, Lance.” The man in question covered his ear, tickled by the air Keith was pushing against it. With his free hand, he was still shuffling through the shelves, until he moved an item and found whatever it was he was looking for behind.

“Aha!” He pulled the bag off the shelf and started towards the door, pulling his warm pockets away from Keith’s fingertips, much to the knight’s dismay. “Alright, now we can go.” Keith grunted, tugging his jacket tighter around his shoulders and following his husband. He slipped a hand around Lance and snatched the bag he’d found. The tailor had whipped around, an outraged cry of disapproval leaving his lips.

Keith started to pull apart the opening of the bag. “Can I see?” But before he could get a look at what was inside, Lance grabbed it back, holding it to his chest.

“No, you cannot!” The knight squinted at the defensive look on his husband’s face. “I’ll show you later. But we gotta go, don’t we?” And with that, Lance was walking out the door.

Keith didn’t know why he wasn’t allowed to see the contents now, but they did have to go soon if they wanted to make it to the castle before the crowd. In a few hours, an annual tournament would begin and Keith was a part of it, so he couldn’t be late. All the knights were obligated to participate, since the winner of the tournament would hold the title of head knight for the next twelve months. Even if he wasn’t forced to fight in the event, Keith probably would have anyway, because Lance was watching and he wasn’t above flexing his muscles a bit and wooing his husband.

The husband who was, at the time Keith looked up, walking without a jacket in the dead of winter. He seemed like he was still too determined in dodging Keith’s questions to notice the cold, but the knight had no doubt it would catch up with him in a moment. Keith bridged the gap between where they were walking, coming to stand next to his husband. His gaze was trained on Lance’s face. Slowly, the determined line of the brunet’s lips curved downwards and his teeth started to chatter. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around himself.

“Do you wanna go back and get a jacket?” Keith was grinning, relishing the excuse to swing an arm around Lance’s waist and bring him closer. The tailor accepted the affectionate action, leaning closer against Keith’s torso, the chattering of his teeth even more obvious with the shortened distance.

“No, it’s okay. I already made us leave late.” He tilted his head to look up at Keith, cold and pathetic. Keith felt the intense drive to do something. He didn’t know quite what that something was; all he knew was that the miserable look on his husband’s face was settling deep into his stomach and almost making him lose the breakfast he’d eaten. “Sorry.”

The something he settled on doing was placing a kiss on his husband’s forehead. Lance squinted and pursed his lips the moment Keith’s touched his skin, the kind of face you’d see on a child who’d just eaten a lemon for the first time. “It’s alright,” Keith assured, turning back to the cobblestone road ahead of the two. “I mean, what’s the queen gonna do? Kick me outta the tournament? I’m not really all that interested in winning, anyway.”

Lance gasped and jumped in front of Keith’s path, the brown paper of his bag crumpling under his firmer grip. “Nope! No, no, no, you _have_ to win!” The knight stopped walking, tilted his head to one side, and put the hand that had been around Lance onto his hip. His eyelids were halfway fallen, solidifying his mainly disinterested mindset, the only sign of curiosity being the angle of his head. “I mean, two years ago, you were knighted. One year ago we got married. But now you’re twenty, and this year’s almost over, and nothing big has happened for you! Becoming the new head knight could be your big thing!”

“What about you, Lance? What big thing happened to _you_ this year?” Keith began to walk again, pulling Lance into his side as he passed him. It was a mutually beneficial position, since the knight wasn’t exactly comfortable in the cold, either. He felt Lance’s hand come to rest on his side, sliding up under the fleece insides of his jacket. Normally, soft, plushy jackets weren’t exactly his thing, but Lance had made him this one, so he was going to wear it all season long, no questions asked. And regardless of the way the other knights teased him for the single stitched heart on the cuff of the left sleeve.

They’d always ask who the lucky lady was, mocking the way he actually wore what his “wife” made him. He didn’t bother correcting them because, excluding Shiro, all the knights were morons with awful gaydars. Keith was happy to talk about his home life with his personal team and the nice strangers he met at the stores in town, but any asshole who thought it odd to wear what his wife made him wasn’t worth Keith’s breath. Ungrateful bastards. He hated most of his coworkers and was looking forward to showing up with his _husband_ and watching them squirm.

Lance sighed dreamily next to him. “Every day with you is a big thing, honey.” The brunet said it in an obviously exaggerated way, with a cooing voice and breathy sighs, but Keith knew he meant what he said, to some degree. He tried not to blush at how sweet the dramatic line was.

“Gross.” Keith turned his face away when his attempts at staying calm were unsuccessful. “But fine, if all your days with me are _your_ big thing, then all my days with you are _my_ big thing.” His face cooled and he turned to give Lance a smile, but the man at his side was sporting an even larger grin.

“Nope! Already taken! Doesn’t count!” Keith rolled his eyes.

He and his husband were almost at the castle, the decorated drawbridge within sight up ahead. The queen herself had decorated the area, having gotten up early and spent quite a few hours doing so. She’d bragged all about her plans to drape ribbons along the light posts in front of the moat and scatter lamps in the water by the entrance. The different military branches’ tournaments were the only annual events that every citizen was invited inside the castle for, after all. She’d probably set up a whole different scene for the mage tournaments tomorrow in celebration.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try to win,” Keith relented, chuckling amusedly at the fact that his husband was more determined to see his victory than he was. Then, seeing an alley to his side, he got an idea. He tugged Lance in, tearing him away from his comfortable and predictable path towards the castle. Pushing the brunet against the side of the alleyway he put a hand by either side of his head and smirked. “But what do I get if I actually win?” He dipped his head down, pressing a kiss to the corner of Lance’s mouth. “A prize,” he murmured, dragging his lips gently along his husband’s skin as he did. “Right?”

The man between his arms laughed, unswayed by what Keith had previously thought was a pretty seductive display. “Pff, Keith! You don’t have to win a tournament to get me.” He lifted his left hand and wiggled the fingers in front of Keith’s face. The knight watched the wedding ring wave back and forth in front of his eyes. “You already put a ring on this one, in case you’ve forgotten.” Keith scoffed while watching the grinning man, dropping his arms, and drawing back.

Really, his whole thing was just a chance to tease his husband. Whether or not he won, he was sure all he had to do to get a “prize” was ask. Lance rarely said no to any form of affection. Still, Keith was a tad hurt that his husband had laughed rather than blushing or swooning. He wanted to see his lover fluster, hear him make pleased noises, feel him give way under the caress of his lips. Yet Lance had laughed and it was more than a little disappointing.

He must have worn the dissatisfaction across his face, because Lance added, “but sure. I’ll do whatever nasty thing you have in mind.” With a wink, he reached one hand up to Keith’s hair, pulling the man down the few inches to his lips. He brushed them briefly together, light and fluttering in a way that had Keith shutting his eyes and seeking after the touch as it left. “If you win, that is,” he said into the knight’s open mouth, laughing slightly. The tailor moved to slip around Keith, but the knight placed his hands against the wall on both sides of his head again.

Keith’s eyes were still shut when he made a quiet, short hum. He chased after Lance’s lips, finding them quickly. His hands went to the small of Lance’s back and gripped the man’s shirt to pull his torso closer. He was pressing his lips on his husband’s mouth for a while, movements full of fervor and intensity, then his kisses strayed, lingering on Lance’s jawbone and trailing down his neck. The sound of a paper bag hitting the floor reached his ears. His eyelids lifted and his lips parted, breaths heaving against Lance’s shoulder, and then he looked up at the brunet’s face, happy to see exactly what he’d wanted to see all along. A drooping gaze, bright cheeks, opened lips, and an expression that was perfectly and beautifully flustered.

He began to move his lips again, slowly, a delicate dance along heating skin, and he slid them to the front of Lance’s throat. The advance was welcomed, head tilting back to give Keith access to whatever bit of flesh there he desired. It was deeply satisfying, having his husband relent under his touch. It was just as he’d wanted before, to feel Lance give way under the caress of his lips.

His mouth opened enough for teeth to grip tanned flesh, closing again around it as the skin was tugged gently back. Lance yelped, undoubtedly surprised by how forward Keith was being, considering he wasn’t too big on PDA. But, well, an alleyway isn’t _exactly_ public. The brunet brought his hands away from Keith’s hair, placing them firmly on his lips, seemingly embarrassed to have made any sound at all. The knight peeled the hands back, kissing his husband’s lips another time, and he finally heard Lance release a satisfied hum, low and sweet. Keith swore he could taste the noise; soft, pleasant, like a sugary dessert. And the way he swallowed it was the same way he’d treat such a dessert, savoring it and refusing to let a single ounce of it go unnoticed, giving every bit of Lance’s swollen lips attention.

And then he pulled back, hands falling to his sides as he took a step away from the wall and watched his husband nearly crumple forward without his support. He snatched the dazed man’s hand, dragging both of them out of the alley, and hiding his grin. He’d gotten the sights, sounds, and feelings he’d wanted from his stunt, so he was no longer going to procrastinate heading to the tournament. Lance was spluttering nonsense words and tripping over his toes. He’d just barely remembered to grab his bag before being tugged completely away.

“Keith, you can’t just,” he managed, unable to finish the sentence and sounding out of focus.

The knight grinned wider. “Don’t worry, we’ll pick it up later.” And he turned towards Lance, giving him the same wink he’d gotten earlier. “If I win.”

His husband guffawed, but intertwined their fingers regardless. “You’re insufferable, Kogane. You know that?” The man smiled because he did, in fact, know that. They were back on the pathway to the castle, eyeing the shining lamps in the water. The sun still hadn’t hit the waves, so the mist remained around the lanterns and it glowed the same shades of pinks and yellows as the lights. Which Keith thought was far too much like spring, considering the weather they were in. And he let that thought consume him, missing the way Lance stood on his toes to whisper in his ear. “I really do hope you win. Especially since, with the title of head knight, I can call you ‘ _captain’_ all I want--”

“That’s enough of that,” Keith sputtered, cheeks burning in a manner that he hoped could be explained away by the cold. Dammit, he should know he never managed to truly one-up his husband with flirting. He was just too soft for anything the man said to him.

By the time Keith made it to the area in which the tournament would be held, his cheeks had cooled and the nerves had begun to set in. He started to wonder if Lance watching him was really a good thing because now he was mortified of messing up. Sure, if he did well and looked like a stud, everything would be fine and good, better than good, honestly, but if he made himself look like a fool? He’d never be able to look his husband in the eyes.

“Hey, Kogane.” The voice came from behind him, vicious and mocking.

He knew it immediately.

“Hello, Griffin,” he sighed, not turning around to face his fellow knight. Lance didn’t turn either, he was busy waving at the only other knight he knew across the courtyard. Shiro was smiling and waving back, his husband joining in the polite gesture as well, albeit confusedly, since he had _not_ met Lance. Had Keith not been preparing himself for an intense annoyance, he might have called them over to chat.

“Who’s this with you?” He was doing the thing where he made his voice whiny and tried to egg Keith into picking a fight first. And Keith knew only two places it could have been going. One, Griffin was going to tease Lance about the jacket he made and Keith was gonna kick his _ass_ for it because he fucking _loved_ that jacket and he wasn’t going to let anyone insult his husband for it. It was wonderfully made, so Griffin could just go fuck himself, if choice one was what was going to happen. Or two, the asshole knight would mock and tease Keith, just Keith, and no punches would be thrown and Keith would go the day without being fired.

He had his preferences on which choice it would be.

“Fuck off, Griffin,” he hissed, unwittingly gripping Lance’s hand tighter in his own. The brunet noticed and turned to look at him, confused by the aggressive action. He looked like he was about to say something, leaning towards Keith with a concerned pout to his lips, but before he could get to asking what was wrong, Griffin spoke again.

“Is this the wife who made that ugly-ass jacket you’re wearing?” And, just like that, Keith had released his husband’s hand in favor of clenching a fist. He spun on his heel, mouth curling around words in a face that was undoubtedly less than pleasant. Keith was going to _pummel_ that shithead. But Lance had heard his statement as well, and he whipped around faster.

“Ex-fucking- _scuse_ me?”

“Oh, shit, you’re a man,” he muttered, too quiet for the livid tailor to hear. Griffin was busy being startled by that revelation and didn’t see Lance swing his leg back, and subsequently forward, right into his shin. “Ow, holy shit!”

“Say that to my face, you punkass, dipshit of a man. I happen to be the only tailor in Castle Town, so I _do_ hope you don’t find yourself in need of a suit. Because, I assure you, I will _intentionally_ cut a hole in the seam right over your flat, little ass!”

Keith snorted. He tried not to, really, but Griffin’s stunned face was far too much to handle. He looked horrified of Lance and, knowing Lance, it was honestly hilarious. He had the upper body strength of an egg and all the violence of a pillowcase filled with candy; he was far from intimidating. And yet there Griffin was, looking ready to bolt at the mere sight of him.

Other knights had turned to witness the scene and were now choking on the same laughter Keith was. Griffin’s stunned face morphed into an embarrassed one, before he turned to leave. “I’ll see you in the ring, Kogane.”

Lance watched him leave with a proud grin on his lips. Then, he turned to Keith. “You’d better win against him. Or I’m divorcing you.” Keith laughed, pressing a kiss to his husband’s head.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” And then it was time for the tournament to start, so the two split up. “And I meant what I said,” he shouted at Keith’s retreating form.

“About beating Griffin or divorcing me?” At that, the brunet merely smiled and turned away.

The whole encounter made Keith’s nerves disappear. If Lance could kick Griffin’s ass, he was sure he could, too. Seeing Lance so determined was also a little contagious. So, when the first matchup came around, Keith entered the ring with a stern expression and locked eyes with his opponent. Then he won. He looked around the crowd for his husband after his victory, spotting him waving and cheering, right next to the fence surrounding the ring. He’d managed to wedge his way through hundreds of people to be the closest he could have possibly gotten to Keith. The knight thought that was impressive and worth appreciation, so he blew a kiss at his husband.

He couldn’t hear Lance laugh, but he saw it. He saw him bend over the railing and wrinkle his nose, cheeks rising to wrinkle the corners of his eyes, too. And that sight, in a way, was enough to hear it. Keith watched the movements and, in his head, heard the soundtracks of countless other movements just like them. It made him happier than his victory had.

The current head knight was Shiro and, having fought him before, Keith thought he would be his hardest opponent. However, the man was removed from the competition during his very first round, when he tripped and knocked himself out on the fence of the arena. Victory might as well have been handed over to Keith then; there was no one else he was worried about.

Griffin made it far enough in the competition to face off with Keith; he and Keith were actually the final two participants. Before the match started, the crowd was entirely silent, waiting with bated breath and leaning as far forward as they could, excited for the conclusion of the day’s festivities. And then, cutting through the stuffy, impatient air was a recognizable cry.

“Kick his ass, babe!”

Needless to say, Keith was happy to oblige.

And then the match was over and Keith found himself acting as the new head knight of Altea. It was all overwhelming. He hadn’t known what came at the end of the tournament; he’d been able to avoid the social obligations of the afterparty both of his previous years of participation, but as the victor, it wasn’t so easy. Keith had been whisked off to the event before he even had the chance to see his husband’s undoubtedly overjoyed face.

It had been half an hour at the party, and even sitting in the twinkling lights and holding a fizzy drink of some kind or other, Keith couldn’t match the jubilant partygoers he found himself surrounded by. He swished the drink, watching the bubbles pop. It was all excruciatingly boring to him. Drowning in a sea of compliments and strangers was not how Keith wanted to celebrate his success. No, he wanted to carry on with Lance, as he’d so boldly promised earlier. But the brunet hadn’t crossed his husband’s line of sight since the start of the party.

“Does the man of the hour have a few minutes for his husband?” Ah, there he was. Keith looked up from his beverage and smiled upon seeing his husband bowed over his sitting form, hand extended. It wasn’t until that moment that the newly appointed head knight appreciated the pastel glow around the castle. It did nothing for his slowly flattening soda, but it did _wonders_ for the soft skin of Lance’s face. And his eyes, shining a royal blue with a film of rosy pink reflected on the surface. Next time he saw the queen, Keith owed her a bout of gratitude because she’d truly outdone herself with the decorations this evening.

Keith accepted the outstretched hand, following as Lance tugged him away from the swell of people dancing on the grass. “I agreed to a few minutes, so you’d better not be planning anything scandalous, Lance.” His husband shot a boyish grin over his shoulder and continued dragging Keith somewhere unnamed. And, only a few hundred feet from the crowd and still very visible in the crowd’s gazes, he stopped. Now Keith _really_ hoped he wasn’t planning anything scandalous, because they were way too close to everyone.

The man turned to face Keith, both hands now wrapped about the paper bag he’d been carrying all day. His face was shy, eyebrows furrowed and nose pointed sharply at the ground. The lighting in the field changed, casting a purple shine along his silky skin and darkening his flitting eyes. Chestnut locks reflected a deep, midnight color. His eyelashes cast shadows down his cheeks when he blinked, trailing lines of ink up and down with every repeat of the bashful action.

“So,” Lance began, finally locking eyes with his husband. He pushed his paper bag forward and into Keith’s stomach. “You wanted to see what was inside earlier?” The head knight nodded, but truthfully, he’d forgotten all about that mysterious item the moment he saw his husband in such a flattering shade of lilac. With great effort, he tore his gaze from the shine of Lance’s lips and placed it on the bag in his hands. He pulled apart the crumpled opening.

Taking a scarlet scarf from inside, he found himself confused. “Why didn’t you want me seeing it earlier?” Lance made a vexed noise, face turning the same color as the scarf and head tilting backwards in a frustrated groan.

“You’re so dense,” he whined. “It was a gift, Keith.”

“A gift? For what? My birthday was months ago.” His husband dragged his hands down his fiery cheeks.

“For when you won the tournament, obviously.”

“But you didn’t know I’d win.”

“That’s why I said you had to.” Keith still wore a rather unimpressed face. The fabric in his hands was soft, and he liked it, but a red scarf wasn’t exactly a gift that was unique to the occasion. Lance read Keith’s expression and his own fell. “You hate it.” He took a hasty step away from the knight, hands cupping his brightly burning face once more. Tears were springing to his glinting eyes. “I’m sorry, I’ve been trying my hand and embroidery, and I know it’s not that good.”

Embroidery? Keith hadn’t seen any on the plain, red scarf. He turned the cloth around in his hands, searching for anything of the sort. It wasn’t long until he found what his husband had mentioned. There, at the tail of the garment, was a collection of words framed by intricate, swirling designs that surely took the tailor hours upon hours of work. It was dark, so he brought the area closer to his eyes in hopes of reading the words along its surface. In curling, cursive, flawless letters, it said, “to the head knight, from his loving husband.” The air caught in Keith’s lungs. His eyes started stinging.

Lance wasn’t paying attention, too far into his frantic rambling to notice anything Keith was doing, at this point. “But one of the royal guards brought a bunch of fancy fabrics so I could make the queen a dress, and said I could keep whatever I didn’t use. And the red was just so _you,_ I thought it would-- nevermind, you’re right, it was stupid.” Keith hiccuped. Loudly. He was ugly crying, tears beading down his cheeks and pooling in his wobbling lower lip. Lance watched, his jaw slack.

“You made this. You fucking _made_ this,” the head knight sobbed. Lance nodded slowly, apprehensively. “For me.” His husband nodded again. “You put all that time into a gift, for no reason, when I might not have even won?” The brunet had turned his nose to the ground again, looking like he’d just received a scolding. Keith stepped forward, peppering kisses on the crown of his husband’s head. “Holy shit.”

He wrapped his new scarf around his neck haphazardly, then bent over to hook his hands around the backs of Lance’s thighs. The man screeched as he was picked up, hands flying to Keith’s shoulders to keep upright and balanced. Then the knight spun and Lance found it near impossible to remain steady unless he gripped around his husband’s neck. He was still treating the whole situation with hesitation; he didn’t understand why Keith was reacting the way he was.

“I have the best husband in the world,” Keith breathed, ceasing his spinning and placing Lance back on the ground. He pulled the brunet into a chaste and brief kiss. “I love you.”

Lance stuttered for a second, before his lips caught up with the pace of his brain. “I thought you hated the scarf, though?” The tailor reached a tentative hand to the expensive garment about his husband’s neck and shoulders, tracing the lettering he’d stitched.

“No, I didn’t see the embroidery, so I was confused. I love it.” Lance broke into a smile. He hugged Keith, hanging on long after it was probably acceptable to be that close in public. The knight could hear him choking on sobs atop his shoulder. He brushed his hands through the midnight hair on Lance’s head until he quieted.

“Sorry,” the brunet whispered as Keith swept the tears from the undersides of his blue eyes. The man shook his head, drawing circles on Lance’s cheeks now that the tears were gone. “I’ve kept you quite a few minutes longer than you agreed to,” he observed. “Did you wanna head back?” Keith nodded, grinning. He had a reason to socialize, now. Because every person he spoke to was a person he’d get to brag about Lance to. He’d shamelessly show everyone at that party the delicate embroidery and the soft fabric of his new gift.

Because, truly, he had the best husband in the world.

And,

He’d lost him.

The head knight wasn’t back at that party, he was scattered helplessly along the grass of the battlefield that had just taken his husband. From right under his nose. He was beyond confused, head hurting almost as much as the shattering organ in his chest. His tears were both fire and ice along his cheeks, freezing and thawing his flesh in an endless repetition of pain. Every bit of his skin was tingling, his hands were quaking as he ran them along his upper arms to ground himself.

He dragged his nails along his skin, drawing blood and hoping the pain would wake him from the awful nightmare he was having. But through his teary view, no bedsheets appeared. His husband wasn’t at his side, his home wasn’t there to keep him warm. He was exactly where he’d been in his supposed nightmare. And he was so caught up in it, he didn’t even notice the way Hunk took out the archer who’d shot him.

“I don’t understand,” he croaked. “The queen said they already had Lance, how could he have been Taylor?” It was agonizing to speak, it felt as though every word left blisters in his throat. He wished he’d just died when he was shot. It would have been better than living the rest of his life knowing that Lance was going to suffer in his stead. The guilt was too heavy to handle. The head knight fell forward, elbows bracing against the tearstained grass. But the weight of his mistakes still hung on his spine and he shrunk further to the ground, forehead pressing into the dirt.

“Maybe,” Pidge said, the hesitance in the statement far louder than the word itself. “If he snuck off on his own, the queen probably would have assumed he’d been captured. So, maybe…”

The words weren’t soothing to Keith. He was still the same level of heartbroken and livid as he’d been before Pidge said anything. He brought his dirt smudged hands to his face, rubbing the dripping tears until the skin underneath was raw. Soil was all over his face, but he didn’t stop; he slid his hands up, tugging at his hair and leaving mud along the strands.

“But why would he leave the castle?” Keith couldn’t comprehend. “It was safe,” he cried.

“Keith, he was just as worried about you as you were worried about him,” Hunk said. “He wanted to make sure his husband stayed safe; same as you.”

It had been selfish of Keith to ask Lance to sit idly by while he risked his life, and he knew that. He’d known it as he asked and he knew it more than ever now. But even so, even knowing that Lance wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t have asked anything different. Because in the end, he was right. When his husband came along, he became a target and, just like he’d known it would be, he couldn’t live with himself now that something had happened to Lance. He didn’t _want_ to live with himself, either. Not without Lance by his side.

“Well, fuck,” he answered, voice hoarse from his wailing and the snot running down the back of his throat. “He did what he set out to do, didn’t he? At his own expense, the fucking idiot.”

Shiro approached Keith, slowly, and put a hand on his back. He retrieved his sword from where it had fallen next to Keith, before speaking. “Keith, what do you want to do?” Haggar had made a sort of proposal, after all. If he went to the castle and “cooperated,” as she’d said, he could potentially get Lance back. But Shiro knew she couldn’t be expected to keep her word, and he wanted to know whether or not Keith was willing to comply with her demands as a result.

The bushes behind the team rustled, and Shiro attributed it to a breeze he hadn’t noticed. “Go save his husband, I’d assume.”

That voice wasn’t familiar. The former head knight looked around to his teammates and saw all of them silent and wearing confused faces as well. He twirled, sword drawn, and the tip happened upon the neck of a stranger, barely brushing the skin there. The stranger took a step back, hands raising in surrender.

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” he laughed, placing his hand gently on the edge of the sword. Keith had finally lifted his head and turned his swollen eyes in the direction of the stranger, looking far from intrigued. “Please, I’m here to help. I hate that witch as much as you.” At that, Keith’s eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, teeth bared.

His tone was sharp as he took a menacing step towards the stranger. “ _That witch_ is my husband.” He seemed about two seconds from tearing the stranger’s throat out with his teeth alone. His hair was disheveled, dirt flaking from his scalp and knots looped around where he’d tugged his fingers through. His eyes were dull, glassy with tears and glinting with anger. They glowed, reflecting the sunrise so the fire burning in his stomach was just as evident on his face. He looked like a beast.

But if Lance had been there, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have been focusing on the fact that lover had called him husband, even after acknowledging the fact that he was a witch. On the fact that, despite his deceit and fugitive status, his husband was still very adamant about calling him by the proper title. On the fact that he hadn’t disowned Lance the moment he knew what he was.

“Whoa, hey, easy there,” the stranger said, “I meant Haggar.”

Keith’s posture went lax for a moment, but he quickly lifted his blazing eyes back to the stranger’s face. “Use witch as an insult again and I’ll break your neck.” So what if he’d done the same thing before? It was different now. It was his husband who could be described in that derogatory tone. No matter what his husband had done, Keith wasn’t going to let anyone use his title like that. He wasn’t going to let anyone use what he was called with such venom in their voice.  

Guilt welled behind his eyes when he remembered that _he_ had called Lance that. When he was Taylor. A distressed noise bubbled in his throat, but he gulped it down. His cheeks began to burn and freeze again so he turned his back on the stranger. He’d never forgive himself if his last days spent with his husband were stuffed with insults and name calling. He felt like the most unobservant husband in the world.

Taylor had Lance’s eyes, his laugh, his mannerisms; he’d been so obviously Lance. It made him sick to think about how he hadn’t noticed. And then he considered why his husband had disguised himself as Taylor at all. Surely he knew he could trust Keith. Surely he knew that he never had to hide anything from his husband. Surely he knew that Keith would have forgiven him for anything illegal he’d ever done. Surely he knew his husband would love and accept him no matter what.

Right?

Had Keith not made it clear enough? He choked on the thought of all the things he could have done wrong to make his husband no longer trust him. The idea of Lance having spent all four years they’d been married in hiding was heartbreaking. The visual of him being _scared_ of his own lover was practically unbearable. Keith felt awful. He thought he’d done everything in his power to assure Lance of how much he loved and respected him, but it still hadn’t been enough. Lance had still expected Keith to get him executed. He’d lived with the fear of death looming over him for _years._ And he’d thought it would be by Keith’s hand.

The stranger was speaking again. “Please, I’m here to help.”

“Oh, yeah, okay, creepy-ass, long necked dude lurking in the shadows. Forgive us for not believing you,” Pidge snarled.

“Allow me to explain,” the stranger started. “That wi-” Keith’s sharp glare was aimed at him again. “Hag. That hag is my mother. She usurped the throne after Zarkon, my father, was killed.”

Shiro lowered his sword, digging the tip into the ground and leaning on the hilt. “That would make you Prince Lotor, right?” He’d met the man once or twice during his time as head knight, but the prince had been younger and less intimidating. Lotor had looked pretty harmless then, yet he was far from that, presently. His gaze was refined, calculating his surroundings. His hair was longer, too, draping over his shoulders and ending farther down his back. It was no wonder Shiro had misidentified him as a stranger.

“Yes, it would. Anyway,” he swept a hand in the direction of the ruins ahead. “Obviously Haggar’s reign wasn’t exactly prosperous. I merely wish to retrieve my birthright and sit atop the throne in her stead, so I can rebuild these lands to be the gorgeous kingdom they once were.”

Hunk let out a muted scoff. “Okay, then why would you want to help us? We have nothing to do with your goal.”

“If that hag gets The Weapon, she’ll likely be too powerful for any of us to stop. We have a common enemy, and I was hoping we could join forces to take her down.”

“But what can you contribute to the effort?” Hunk remained unconvinced.

“I grew up in the castle, I know its layout. I also know where my mother would be keeping your husband,” Lotor said, locking eyes with Keith. “So, I’m your best bet at getting him back without handing yourself over.”

The head knight looked away, shifting his gaze to the ruins shining in the light of the rising sun. A breeze travelled through the air, blowing his tangled locks about his neck and sending the scent of their filth to his nose. The grass around the ruins shifted much the same way, swaying to look like olive colored waves, and the liquid motions reminded Keith of his husband. Not as the embodiment of fear he now seemed to be, but as the soothing presence he usually was in Keith’s life. It was calming and it cleared the knight’s head enough to reply.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Tell us how to get him back.”

Lotor smiled. It was friendly and appreciative, expressing his gratitude for being accepted into the team. After he smiled, he pulled his hair back and tied it up. Then, his explanation began.

The castle was large and woven into a mountain. The main rooms of the castle lay at the top, where the standard castle outline would be visible, with slanted roofs and intimidating towers. One of those towers had Haggar’s personal chambers and what Lotor called the mirror room, where Lance probably was. Behind a mirror in the queen’s room, there was a sort of dungeon, only accessible by magic, and it was the room she usually kept her prisoners in. There was a standard dungeon a little ways down the mountain, underground, but she’d likely deemed it too dangerous to hold Lance there when it was so far from where she’d be. So, that left the mirror room.

Lotor and Pidge would go there, since they could both use magic and, together, probably overpower whatever spell Haggar had guarding her mirror. Meanwhile, Shiro and Keith would distract the queen in the throne room, keeping her occupied while Lance was removed, so she wouldn’t go to do it herself and find Lotor and Pidge in the process of breaking in. They’d keep her attention with a battle, until Lance had been retrieved and the team’s mages sent a signal to Hunk, who would be perched outside one of the shattered windows of the throne room, where he could see both the tower and the queen. Upon receiving this signal, the archer would fire an arrow onto the battlefield below in order to notify the knights of the completed status of Lance’s rescue mission.

Keith listened to Lotor’s plan, patiently, until its end. Then, he gripped his sword and was prepared to act as he was told immediately, but Lotor spoke up again. “Where are you going? She’s set up magic guardians in the castle, if you go unprepared, they’ll kill you.” Keith swung his sword into the air, waving it about to show that he _was_ prepared. He could cut through whatever that hag threw his way. Lotor looked amused by the frustrated action, coughing into his hand to stifle a laugh. “Just,” he coughed again. “How about we chart our courses _before_ we leave?”

There was a pathway to get to the throne room above ground, a winding cobblestone road along the shallow slopes of the small mountain, but the queen had the aforementioned magic guardians watching over it. They’d shoot on sight, according to Lotor. He’d said he couldn’t quite describe what they looked like, but that they were terrifying, even to him. Thus, it was safer to use the underground tunnels to reach the locations they were headed to. The tunnels were guarded, too, but by far less fearsome creatures. The team would split up about halfway through those tunnels, Pidge and Lotor heading to climb the tower while the rest of the team continued to the throne room. The mages would climb the tower, but they wouldn’t actually enter Haggar’s personal chambers until Hunk gave the signal to assure them that the queen was occupied and wouldn’t be joining them.

With all that figured out, Lotor finally let Keith lead the team along on his hasty journey to his husband. The sun shone at about the middle of the sky now, alerting him to the time of day and illuminating the crumbling castle on its mountaintop. But Keith wasn’t focused on that, he was eyeing the ruins they were all wandering through. He recognized them now as the Galra kingdom’s Castle Town, where he’d spent a great deal of his childhood. It was eerie seeing where he’d grown up cracked and falling apart, and he wondered if it was some kind of a warning from the gods he no longer believed in. Were they telling him he’d end up the same way? Were they telling him to turn back, because otherwise, he’d find himself just as shattered?

He decided that it didn’t matter, because turning back and leaving Lance behind would _never,_ in all his remaining years of life, be an option.

Consequences be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith in the first half of this chapter: FUCK OFF GRIFFIN, I'M NOT GOING TO YOUR FUCKIN' BABY SHOWER
> 
> I hope it was clear that the first half was a flashback lol, but here's your fyi if it wasn't, haha  
> Let me know what you thought! 
> 
> (P.S. I always think of the ruins of the Galra kingdom looking kinda like the ruins in Breath Of the Wild, so if you've played that, now ya know!!)


	8. The Things He'd Do For Those He Loved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's past 1AM where I am and I have to get up at 4:30 ;--; rip Cake  
> but anyway!!! Enjoy the update!! o3o

The castle up ahead and its collapsing tunnels were intimidating on their own, but when the team reached the arched entrance to the underground passages, the magic guardian out front was even more frightening. It hadn’t moved yet, so the group had hopes that they could slip around and into the archway without being noticed. They’d been kicking up stones and dust the whole trip there, but the moment they saw that creature, their footsteps became quiet and careful.

Hunk looked over at the monster. “Aw, c’mon, it’s not really all that scary,” he whispered to Lotor. But the creature heard him speak and flung its metal torso around and focused its one laser eye on the group. It started launching rapid fire attacks from a cannon on its head. When its body followed the shift of its torso, all eight of its legs came into sight, in addition to the two arms it had. If Keith had to describe it, he’d say it was like a centaur with the body of a spider instead of a horse, and made entirely of metal. “Holy-- I take it back!”

In one of its arms, it had a sword, and in the other, it held a shield. Keith sprinted at the side with the sword, hoping to cut through its arm to eliminate its close range weapon, but one of the guardian’s projectile attacks landed right in front of his toes, crackling and sparking on its way to the ground. He stumbled back, bumping into Shiro. The two locked eyes for a moment, then Keith pointed at the monster’s shield arm, hoping the knight got the message.

Luckily, he did, and ran at the shield while Keith ran at the sword. The guardian couldn’t chase each of them with cannon shots at the same time, so it flickered between them, firing with both poor aim and poor speed. Keith made it to his location first, and immediately began swinging his sword at the joints of the creatures arm, hoping to cut through and detach the limb from its body. The first part was easy, his sword went clean through the joint, but the limb merely reconnected after every time it came off, so the second part seemed to be impossible. All the while, Shiro was trying the same thing on his side and yielding the same miserable results.

Hunk had pulled out his bow, shooting all sorts of targets on the creature’s body. He started with the head, but the arrow bounced right off its metal surface with a clink, and nestled itself in the grass around one of the guardian’s eight feet. It snapped in half when the monster took a step back and its metal leg crunched the projectile. Hunk fired arrows at its hands and its torso, but they all reflected off as well.

Lotor put shields in front of both Shiro and Keith, hoping to block any swings of the creature’s sword. Upon seeing its attacks fail, the guardian stopped them for a second, seemingly calculating its next move, before it swivelled its torso a few degrees in Shiro’s direction. Then, at a much higher rate of speed, it pivoted back towards Keith, sword swinging just as fast as its body. The head knight couldn’t jump back in time, but he figured Lotor’s shield would be sturdy enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t.

It split in half, shattering with a sound like a smashed window or a dropped plate. The force of the impact and the subsequent fragmentation sent a gush of air towards Keith. He flew backwards, his armored spine hitting the archway at the front of the tunnels. His head didn’t hit, by some miracle, but the sudden movement still had his brain rattling against his skull and it left him dazed. His body ricocheted off the stone, sending him harshly onto the dirt.

For a solid thirty seconds, his ears wouldn’t stop ringing and he couldn’t get a single thought into his head. His brain had gone silent, but the world around him was nothing but high pitched squeals. Then the thoughts came back, but they were scattered. He slid his arm out from under where it had been crushed beneath his armor, glad it wasn’t his dominant hand that had been unquestionably broken under his weight. He lifted his nose from where it had been buried in the dirt, placing his cheek on the ground instead. The knight still couldn’t get himself to stand up.

Keith brought his left hand in front of his blurry line of sight and squinted at the mangled flesh. He was staring at the back of it, when a spell of panic washed over him. His left hand was the hand with his ring, and if his bones had been crushed so easily, he worried the band had met the same fate. The head knight was struggling to focus on the object, but he managed and realized it had been undamaged. He relaxed. And then he focused on the scenery behind his hand.

He recognized one of the buildings. It was just as wrecked as his hand currently was and he honestly shouldn’t have been able to recognize it, but it held an important, awful, place in his heart and mind. Just looking at it made him start to heave. His whole body ached at the memories flooding his mind. He’d been only eight years old in that building, but it was the worst day of his life to date. He hated the way he could remember it with nearly perfect clarity, even now. It was running through his mind again, unfolding too fast for him to stop.

Keith was asleep when they came into his room. The doctors. Grabbing hands had torn him from his bed that morning and had left bruises in rings around his upper arms. The gloved fingers had faces that were no longer present in his memories. He couldn’t tell you what was said, or which turns he’d taken to get from his bedroom in the Galra soldier barracks to the lab. That cursed lab with blinding lights and whirring noises that were seemingly without source. That cursed lab he saw in every one of his nightmares. That cursed lab that left more scars on his body than any battle ever could. That cursed lab that was sitting behind his crushed hand.

There were questions, lots of them, most of which went unanswered. Keith was young, trusting, and observant enough to see the royal badges on the doctors' coats. So, he stopped asking questions. He didn’t ask anything when they ran countless tests. He didn’t ask anything when they stuck needles in his arms. He especially didn’t ask anything when the serum had first been pumped into his bloodstream. But that last one wasn’t for lack of trying.

It had hurt. More than anything since could come close to matching. It had felt like every muscle in his body had been ripped apart all at once, then shoved back together, then torn apart once more. The same way one or two muscles might ache when you move them after a good workout. But it was every inch of his body, every muscle he had, all at once. And it was heavier than an ache. It was a third degree burn that consumed every ounce of blood he had; a feeling that boiled thickly in his veins until it felt like lava itself had made a home under his skin.

And then it had stopped. Suddenly, blissfully. Keith had stopped screaming, then. He wanted to get up, but the doctors gave him another dose of the serum and the pain began anew. It had seemed like every injection was less painful than the last, but maybe it was only because Keith was closer to the brink of unconsciousness with each bit of serum he got. Eventually, he’d been numb to the searing substance. They’d tried another dose, but he didn’t react at all. No burning, no boiling, no pain. Keith had felt a surge of strength in his bones and a sense of pride at the sharpness of all his senses. He wanted to hate everything about the serum, but in a fleeting moment of weakness, he’d allowed himself to be proud of the power it gave him. The feeling had been blocked out since.

The doctors had been openly happy, though. They’d brought Keith before King Zarkon, received great praise, and then it was over. After those hours of torture and the meeting with the king, Keith was allowed to return to his normal life. That was it. Never an explanation, never another injection, never the repeated sight of a faceless doctor. He was back to his life as an orphan adopted by the government and trained by the Galra soldiers.

But that was during the day. At night, for three years after the experiments, he’d gotten foul dreams. The first nightmares had been of the event itself. The pain, the helplessness, the uncomfortable pride he’d felt at the results. After those few years, the dreams ended, but then he’d been taken to Altea and he’d befriended Shiro. The dreams began again, but no longer were the doctors faceless. They wore the countenance of the only friend he’d ever made as a child.

Worse still was after he started dating Lance. Upon allowing a new person into his heart, he’d assumed it would be like before, with new dreams and new doctors. After the first nightmare, he wished he’d been right. He wished Lance had been the dream doctors because even that would have been better than the sight he’d seen. The sight of Lance there, instead of him, as the helpless victim of an unimaginable pain that Keith would never wish upon anyone, least of all his own boyfriend. The sounds of his agony, his pleas for help, were worse than the pain. There was blood—blood that hadn’t been in the actual event—in those dreams, too. It reflected light from atop the metal tables and dripped from the tips of sharpened tools and pooled on the warmth of Lance’s skin. It was disgusting and horrifying to see.

But the epitome of awful was Lance’s face in the dreams. It would start as something pleading and concerned, with furrowed brows and watery eyes. His mouth would form around the letters of Keith’s name, sounding it out with trembling lips. He’d silently ask for help with subtle shifts to his delicate features. True to Keith’s experience and despite the way he’d beg for it not to be so, help would never come. Then the curves and angles of Lance’s face would contort in pain. A pain that made Keith feel like he was trapped in his own skin, like his joints had locked and he couldn’t move or get to Lance. Thankfully, that was usually when he woke up.

And he would have liked to say the nightmares with Lance had stopped, because, for the most part, they had. But every now and then, he’d find himself waking up with wet cheeks and a hand that flew out to his husband’s side of the bed. Lance had never asked about why he’d been smacked so suddenly and at such a late hour, and Keith never intended to tell him. He was okay with the wordless comfort of his husband wiping away his tears and lulling him back to sleep.

He could survive the endless and sporadic dreams, no matter how insufferably unpredictable they were. In fact, he would swear he was having one right now, observing the cursed lab with his face in the dirt. But he was very much awake, no matter how nightmarish the memories had felt.

Keith forced his broken hand to the ground along with his dominant one, digging his fingers deep and disregarding the way dirt burrowed its way under his nails. He pushed himself up and resumed his grip on his sword, paying no heed to the way his left hand throbbed from its supporting position on the hilt. The head knight charged right back at the guardian like nothing had happened at all; like he hadn’t just broken a few bones against his metal armor and probably suffered a concussion.

The others were all still fighting as they had been before his brief bout of pain and quasi-unconsciousness. If it weren’t for the way the others were screaming at him and asking for his status, Keith would have thought no one had even noticed the way he hit the wall, since they were all still fighting as though nothing had happened. Everyone except Pidge, that is. She was standing away from the monster, merely observing its movements and assessing them. After each shot of its cannon, its head would go dull, the glow of the cannon fading until Pidge could see the inner workings of its head. While, according to Lotor, the creature was powered by magic, there were chords and wires housed inside, twitching with every movement of the robotic limbs.

A projectile was launched from the guardian once more, and Pidge seized her moment immediately after, wedging her own electricity spell into the cannon and melting the casing of the wires. Arms and legs were short circuiting, hissing and sizzling the same way the cannon fire had been. Keith made it to the creature at that moment, swinging his sword in the same way that had been so fruitless earlier. The arm didn’t reattach this time, so Shiro began to do the same on his side, until together the two had removed every limb from the guardian’s body. It crumpled uselessly into a heap on the ground, no longer capable of any forms of attacking.

“Huh,” the head knight huffed. “That easy?” He kicked the shell of the monster. “The more ya know.” Keith put his good hand to his head, rubbing the pulsating feeling in his temples, kneading with hopes that it would disappear. It didn’t feel right. He took a step back from the guardian’s corpse and his balance was off, making him sway to the side. It definitely was not right. The knight raised his head from looking at the creature and faced a sudden wave of dizziness that had him shutting his eyes for a moment.

Lotor approached. “Your hand,” he said, reaching his own appendage out towards Keith. He got a hostile look in response, a lifted corner of a mouth that bared only a few teeth in a grimace of disgust. The knight pulled his hand to his chest, flicking his gaze to the ring on his finger. “I meant to heal it, not hold it,” Lotor said, rolling his eyes.

The injured man was still reluctant, barely resting his hand on the prince’s and looking like he was ready to bolt at the slightest twitch. And when Lotor lifted his other hand to cast the spell, Keith did begin to bolt, shifting one foot back and yanking his hand up. Then he realized the prince’s motion wasn’t one with malicious intent, and he settled his hand down again. The familiar tingling of a healing spell drifted across his fingers.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, hating the way the feeling had such a negative undertone now. It was the same feeling he’d felt moments before his husband was taken. The pricks in his hand weren’t unpleasant in nature; they ran along his skin and it reminded him of the way Lance would treat him after a nightmare. It felt like calming hands rubbing against his back, tracing soothing circles and intricate designs with bitten nails. It felt like fingers in his hair, detangling knots and smoothing back sweaty bangs. It felt like sweet, calming kisses along his neck and collarbones, innocent and loving. So, no, it wasn’t the feeling itself that was so unpleasant.

It was the way that it made his stomach buzz. When the spell ran its course through his fingers, a sort of phantom pain leaked into his abdomen, where the arrow had stuck him a few hours prior. Both the injury and the memory of it were fresh. Keith knew he’d never feel another healing spell without thinking of his husband and what he’d been willing to do. Without thinking of how he'd thrown his own life away in favor of Keith's. He needed to get Lance back, _alive,_ or he’d never be able to be healed again. He’d rather bleed out than relive the desperation he was feeling now, with tears pooling in his eyes as he watched the bruises surrounding his wedding ring disappear.

“And your head,” Lotor said, releasing Keith’s hands and lifting his own towards the knight’s.

“What? My head’s fine,” Keith slurred, surprising himself with the messy enunciation. He brought his fingers to his temples, then pulled them back to see blood. “Nevermind.” Lotor healed that area, too, clearing all the fog from Keith’s mind and leaving him with the faint idea that he’d had a concussion after all.

Lotor began walking towards the arched entrance to the tunnels. The team followed, nearly everyone eyeing the fallen guardian as they passed it. Keith hadn’t, though. He was watching the Galra prince with a wary stare, thinking it odd how unphased he’d been by the attack and how quickly he’d returned to his pursuit of the underground passageways. Everyone else on the team was at least a little shaken by the strength of their foe, but Lotor remained undeterred from his forward march. Keith wondered if the prince had simply grown up around the guardians and was used to them as a result.

Upon entering the tunnels, Keith’s attention was refocused. The stone walls were ragged and cluttered with unlit torches that made sure the hall got darker the farther from the entrance they walked. Eventually, Keith was the only one who could see in the shadowed space. Pidge offered to cast a spell to illuminate the area, but right as she did, the head knight saw something in the darkened expanse ahead.

Drawing his sword, he hushed everyone and brought the group to a stop. Then, the man took slow, cautious steps in the direction of the object, watching as it shifted and the movements echoed shuffling noises throughout the hall. Its motions sounded wet, like every one of the creature’s steps was in a puddle or like it had water bottles on its hips, sloshing at the slightest change in position. Keith couldn’t tell what the thing was, but it started towards him at a hastier pace than its sloppy form seemed capable of.

And it was in front of him just as fast. Keith reflexively ran his sword through it, cursing the way the blade did seemingly no damage. The creature was all liquid, judging by its looks, sounds, and the feel of it as it began to creep up his wrist. “What the fuck?!” Whatever was slipping up his arm was the temperature of ice water, the texture of mud, and crawling closer to the different openings of his armor. He shook his arm around, hoping to fling the substance off, but with no luck.

“Keith,” Hunk’s voice sounded from behind him. “What’s going on?”

“I think I’ve run into one of the things living inside of here,” the head knight growled, finally managing to get the liquid to drip back off of his skin. He tried shoving his sword into the creature again, but ended up with its body creeping up the hilt in the same manner as before, so he leapt back. “Damn!” Keith had felt his skin starting to burn with the contact to the frigid substance.

“There should be something solid inside all the liquid,” Lotor said. “The creature will die if you break it.” Lotor must have grown up with the creatures, like Keith had thought, since he knew where their weak points were.

The head knight began striking the monster quickly and then pulling back before his arm could be climbed. It was a decent strategy, but not as fast as he would have liked; he’d yet to hit anything solid. But he aimed one strike at apparently just the right angle to hit whatever weak point Lotor had mentioned being inside. The creature struck back with increased fervor at that, leaping into the neck of his armor without any assistance from Keith’s sword. It began to wrap around the flesh of his neck, tightening despite its liquid state. The head knight didn’t understand how it was possible, but it clearly was, since his windpipe was being crushed and the oxygen of the hall wasn’t reaching his lungs.

And the burning was no better, making the skin underneath the creature feel as though it was bubbling. It sent flashes of the serum injection memories through his body. That, combined with the lack of air, had his focus slipping and his sword clanging against the ground as he dropped it. His hands flew to the liquid about his throat, fingers running through it desperately. He couldn’t get noise out to ask for help, but the clatter of his sword had gotten his teammates’ attention.

“Keith?” Pidge sounded slightly frantic, her voice slipping up an octave and her utterance of his name shaking. “I’m gonna cast the illumination spell,” she added, a spark appearing at the edge of Keith’s vision as she did.

“No, wait! If you do that--” Lotor’s warning was cut off when the creature’s liquid lunged at Pidge’s spell and doused it like it was nothing more than a match. The woman stumbled back, shaking the substance from her hand with a yelp. The liquid jumped to rejoin the rest of its body around Keith’s neck, and Keith found himself, for the first time the whole journey, at the brink of giving up. He was tired.

In the last twenty four hours alone, so much had happened. He’d almost died, he’d found his husband, he’d lost his husband again, and now he was almost dying again. He was _done_ with everything and at the end of his motivation. The knight was ready to accept the unconsciousness clawing at the front of his skull, worming itself into the entirety of his brain. At that moment, he’d decided he couldn’t do it anymore. His eyes shut.

But there, clinging to the insides of his eyelids, was his husband. With furrowed brows and an outstretched hand. He swore he felt that hand land across his cheek, sliding to his chin to grip his face and bring it closer. And then there was a warmth along his hairline, where he was sure, for a split second, that Lance’s forehead had come to rest. Just leaning, pressing ever so gently against his skin. A similar sensation overcame his suffocating lips, but then, he could feel the heat leave, and he saw Lance’s lips as they began to cradle fallen tears. The water spilled over as he began to plead.

“Keith, please.” His voice was soggy and fading, but still the only thing that kept the head knight clinging to consciousness. “I can’t lose you.” And that lit a fire beneath Keith’s heart. His eyes flew open. No. Lance wasn’t going to lose a husband today. Keith was going to beat this monster and get the two of them back home together.

Lance needed him. If he died here, Haggar would no longer have a use for his husband and Keith really didn’t want to know what would happen to the brunet in that situation. It was awful to think about. The darkness of the path ahead held images of Lance’s pained face. It was so real, Keith swore he could actually hear the screams pounding against his eardrums. And a sharp breath, a precursor to a statement he could barely decipher.

“Keith, please, don’t give yourself up to her!” And then another scream and the vision was gone. His dream was over. Lance was back to being only in the depths of his mind, not the vacant space ahead of him. But the brief vision was enough. He knew now. Suffocating wasn’t an option. He had someone depending on him. He had a duty as a husband to be someone Lance could depend on and he was _not_ turning his back on that now, after coming so far. Lance _needed_ him. _Him_. He was the only one who could do this.

The whole creature had wrapped itself about his neck now, and Keith knew the solid part was in there somewhere, too. He swiped his hands through the liquid, looking for the weak point. Luckily, he found it and ripped it out, then dropped it to the ground. His metal boot crunched it, the liquid choking him falling to the ground in an instant. His lungs both burned and felt relieved at the intake of his next breath.

“Why the _fuck_ is she attacking us?” His voice was wheezing, sounding like the embodiment of a pillow bursting at the seams and spewing its contents in a violent cloud of feathers. Barely audible, like the soft feathers, but clearly sputtering, like the violent cloud. “She invited us here!”

“Did you kill that thing?” Keith answered Pidge’s question with a positive grunt. “Oh, good.” She lit another illumination spell, this one glowing in her hand long enough to do actual illuminating. It made the puddle around Keith’s feet clear, and the head knight suddenly realized the contents of that monster were pooling on the inside of his armor. Gross.

At the very least, he was alive.

A fact that was a huge relief to Lance as he watched the whole scene unfold on the inside of the mirror door to his chamber. He’d been forced to tune in the moment the team arrived at the front of the tunnels. Haggar had sent something, an enchanted object similar to the magical scouts Pidge had briefly explained to him, to watch over the archway and follow the team through the underground passageways. And Lance had been experiencing the sights as well. With Haggar by his side to take pleasure in his horror.

He’d screamed when the guardian had launched Keith into the archway. The sight of his husband slamming into the stone made his back ache the same way he imagined Keith’s had. Then he landed, face down, in the dirt, and didn’t stand up. Lance’s heart stopped. Tears reflected in his eyes at the idea of his husband being dead. Haggar had been making cruel comments at every opportunity she got, but for those minutes, he couldn’t hear the vile words. All he heard was a mantra of Keith’s name in his ears, paired with pleas for him to be okay.

He saw his husband lift his hand out from under him, relieved to have seen any movement at all to indicate that Keith was, in fact, alive. Haggar had sent her scout to watch only the head knight at that point, deeming him a more effective tool of torture for Lance.

The brunet had been silent as he observed the way Keith squinted at the ring on his finger, before his focus faded onto something behind it that Lance couldn’t make out. His face flickered with countless emotions after that, none of which were particularly positive.

Keith had worn a dull, exhausted expression at first, but then, with a wince, it had turned into fear. His eyes had widened, pupils shrinking and seeing something that wasn’t truly there. He’d murmured Lance’s name, near too quiet to be heard over the deafening, thundering cries of battle behind his back. Lance longed to reach out and tell him he was there, he was fine, and that whatever sight Keith was seeing of him wasn’t real. But the knight got over the terror as quickly as it had entered his visage. Because finally, after what felt like hours of excruciating waiting, the man got up.

And Lance thought his suffering had ended. That Keith would make it the rest of the journey up the mountain without any more near death experiences. It had been foolish, really. Hopefully foolish; a trait that Lance’s mother had always said would be his demise. It certainly felt like she was right when he watched his hopes get dashed and his husband get strangled. He prayed to every god he’d ever heard of that Keith would find a way out of the monster’s clutches. He always did. Keith was like that, always finding a way to one-up Lance, surely this time would be no different. He’d get out of the monster’s grasp, and Lance would be stuck with his own monster. He wanted nothing more than for Keith to do better than he had.

But Keith wasn’t getting out. He’d stopped struggling entirely, resigning himself to a fate Lance couldn’t bear. He couldn’t watch this. Gods, he’d cast an electricity spell on his heart and kill himself before he sat and watched it. The witch thought about that for a moment. Spells. He still had those. Haggar’s chamber didn’t restrict magic, nor had she put any enchanted objects upon his skin. He could still use magic.

Not an amount anywhere near enough to escape his prison, but maybe, _maybe,_ he could get a message to Keith. He clambered through the innermost depths of his mind, trying to remember any spells that could accomplish that. He could recall one, a sort of projection spell, but he’d only remembered it because it was supposed to be extremely draining and he’d been advised by his mother never to use it, save for the most dire of circumstances. His husband dying in front of him qualified as that.

He silently conjured up all the magic in his being as he could, muffling his pained noises in the collar of his cloak. Haggar couldn’t hear him until he was done. Until Keith was no longer giving up. He really didn’t know how the message would appear to Keith, but he figured anything would be better than nothing, so he directed the magic through his veins the same way his mother had shown him not to. And there was a moment of clarity.

Keith was inches from him, invisible in the dark, since Lance no longer had a scout to peer through. But he knew his husband was there, he could feel his heat. It was paralleling the burn in his muscles at the strain he was putting himself through. Lance wasn’t really there, but he might as well have been with a projection spell as potent as this. He reached a hand out and brushed Keith’s cheek, before drawing it down to his chin. He leaned in for a kiss he wasn’t sure Keith could feel through the spell. Then he pulled back, his cheeks dripping with tears.

“Keith, please,” he begged, hating the crumbling tone to his voice. He had to be the strong one. Keith’s eyelids twitched, but, ultimately, remained closed. “I can’t lose you,” he sobbed, finally relenting to the fragility of his voice. He was right; he couldn’t lose Keith. Not like this. He’d wanted to lose him when they were both old and gross. Keith was twenty three, he was far too young to pass in battle. Lance was twenty two, he was far too young to be widowed.

His vulnerable words seemingly struck a chord in Keith, his eyes flying open to reveal a scorching determination that would have made Lance swoon, had it not been for the grim circumstances. And those circumstances only seemed to worsen. Pain blistered all along his chest, tearing him back from his projection spell. No longer was he looking into Keith’s face. Now, it was Haggar.

With a scowl, he pushed past the atrocious agony the queen’s electricity spells were causing him, and he resumed his projection. He still had so much he wanted, _needed,_ to say to Keith. Another wave of Haggar’s spells wracked his body and all he could manage were screams. He hadn’t wanted his husband to hear that. Lance sucked in, shoving the screams into his stomach.

“Keith, please, don’t give yourself up to her!” And finally the pain and draining spell became too much and he couldn’t keep it up any longer. He hadn’t said it in time, so the words merely echoed in his cell, but Lance had murmured an unreciprocated, “I love you,” before being dragged back.

In his barely breathing state, Lance had still managed to witness Keith’s escape from the monster. He looked almost as disheveled and beaten as Lance did. He was disgusted with the monster’s guts in his armor, which was understandable and brought a weak grin to Lance’s face. Grossed out, he could handle watching.

At the very least, he was alive.

But he didn’t get to see much more.

Haggar got to work ensuring that Lance wouldn’t pull a stunt like that again. He didn’t resist. He was too drained to do much of anything. The spell was exhausting; his mother was right. like she usually was. By the time he’d been gagged and his wrists had been bound, another tragedy was already occurring in the sights of the scout. Lotor had noticed the spying object.

“Hello, Mother,” he hissed, eyes narrowed venomously at the scout, before he fired an electricity spell at it. It short circuited and the feed went dead. Haggar had seemed only minorly inconvenienced by the harsh tone, and she made her way to the exit of Lance’s cell.

Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “I bet you wish they weren’t coming for you, huh?” She passed halfway through the mirror. “Must be awful to shoulder the burden of your husband’s death.” And then she was gone.

Her words lingered, though.

Because she was right.

He wished Keith hadn’t come for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this chapter even good? I'm too exhausted to tell  
> Let me know what you thought! And feel free to point out any errors I made in my tired haze ;-; I will fix them when I wake up 
> 
> Also I need a new playlist because if I have to hear despacito one more time while writing angst, I won't be able to resist saying "This is so sad. Alexa, play despacito"


	9. You're More Than a Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW CAKE IS TIRED AS HECK  
> Sorry it took longer than I thought it would :(( I started to doze off while writing at like 1AM yesterday so I turned in for the night, and haven't gotten the chance to edit/post the chapter until now  
> BUT HERE IT IS!!!  
> please read it til the end cuz there will be a note that is muy importante afterwards :)
> 
> OH I ALMOST FORGOT!! There are a lot of physics nerd facts in this chapter, I got A's in AP Physics so I think they're all legit, but if they're not! Don't be afraid to tell me cuz I'll do more fact checking based on what you say!!  
> ok now you can enjoy your update :)

Keith found himself a lot less bothered by the tunnels when Pidge was lighting them. Before, the reverberating sounds of heels on stone seemed to echo through his body the same way it had resounded off the walls, but now they didn’t seem to jostle his legs quite as much. There were more creatures like the one that had almost killed Keith, but they seemed to hold a certain disdain for the light, and thus, they adhered to the walls and gave the team no trouble. Save the few that tried to snuff Pidge’s light out. Luckily, the spell was too powerful now, though, and the creatures found no successes in their endeavors. They slinked back to their walls in defeat.

Also on those walls were the long shadows of the unlit torches. The shining beam from Pidge’s hand went far ahead in the corridor and the rotting sticks on the wall hung shields of black in the same direction. Keith watched their shapes shift and aim in the other direction as the mage passed and the light changed sides. It was the only way he could entertain himself.

No one was speaking and the head knight didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts. He was tired of dwelling on how real the Lance on the inside of his eyelids had seemed and wondering if it was possible for his husband to _truly_ have been there. It made him think about how awful his husband must currently feel, trapped and alone, which he definitely didn’t want to think about. Yet, he also didn’t want to think positive things about the man, either, since that ended up just as saddening. If he let it wander, his mind would flit between blissful memories and horrible visions of plausible futures. So, he refused to give it the opportunity. He watched the changing shadows and counted in his head, trying to occupy every brain cell he had, so Lance couldn’t do it for him.

It only worked but so well. Keith had been thinking of Lance religiously for _years_ , it wasn’t the kind of obsession that disappeared in a single afternoon. But he wished, for just a microsecond, that it was, and his stomach welled with guilt immediately after. It was hard, that’s all. He’d never denied himself the thought of Lance. Not once, since he met him. Wherever his mind had wanted to go, he’d let it go. And trying to rein it all back in was like chasing a dog while carrying a leash: desperate and fruitless. Lance had always said he loved it when Keith was reminded of him randomly; that he thought it was romantic. Keith happily ran with that title of romantic, grinning every time he saw something that even slightly resembled his husband. But now, he saw Lance everywhere and in everything and he wasn’t smiling about it.

Even the torch shadows, the ones that had been his sole friend through the torturous thoughts, began to remind him of his husband. Their color was a similar purplish brown as Lance’s eyes in the lilac lighting on the night he’d gifted Keith his scarf. Almost the same color as that freckle on his cheekbone that the head knight loved to kiss and drag his nose across. And closer still to the shade of Lance’s shadows; the ones that drifted across his face when the sun hit his nose and forehead and eyelashes just right, so the ridges of his face dripped the darkened color down his cheeks and onto his lips.

His lips. There were stones in the hallway that matched that color, too. Keith brushed his fingertips along the pieces of the wall that matched the feature on his husband’s face. Each time, he’d silently hope it would yield the same feeling as when Lance touched the spot. When he would kiss along the lengths of his fingers, trailing up and down each one, until he reached his left ring finger. The brunet would tear up there, tilting his head forward to press his nose to the back of Keith’s hand, before he’d finally land another kiss on the ring. But the wall didn’t have the same caress of warmth and love. It was cold and rigid, which were two words that failed to describe Lance and his lips completely. Unless, of course, the life had left his lips by now.

Keith hastily drew his hand back from the wall. He didn’t like that train of thought. His husband’s lips had always been a heat against his skin, so the idea of them being anything else was indescribably upsetting. He could remember the feeling of those lips against his neck, ghosting along with tickling kisses, lazy and gentle, the way Lance showed affection when he was tired. They’d been warm then. And when Lance wasn’t tired, when he was wide awake and sprawled across Keith’s lap, the kisses he left were anything but cold. They were scorching, full of tongue and teeth and flustered breath. They had a bruising fire in them that left Keith weak at the knees and hoping his kisses did the same for Lance; that his lips massaged the same feverish burn of pleasure into Lance’s neck and collarbones.

Everything about his husband was just _warm._ His personality, his smile, his twinkling eyes, and the laugh he sometimes gave that rang like a string of tiny bells. The mere thought of the adjective _cold_ applying to his name was unheard of for Keith. He’d never been distant, so not even that form of the word would make sense. So when Keith thought of Lance’s mouth being frigid and limp and _lifeless,_ it left a bitter taste on his own lips that he lapped up with a swipe of his tongue. It just wasn’t right. The same way a word falls apart when you say it or write it too much. The same way an inside out shirt remains the same fabric, yet still fails to be what it’s supposed to be. The same way an empty shopping center leaves a person feeling dazed and confused. And scared.

Gods, was Keith scared. He couldn’t lose his husband. He loved Lance so much. More than he’d ever loved anyone, if he was being honest. Lance was the only person who could cheer him up with his mere presence. When he carded his hands through Keith’s hair, it had the head knight’s shoulders relaxing and his heart steadying to a calming rhythm in his chest. When he listened as Keith stumbled over his words, struggling to put his thoughts into something Lance could understand, the patience across Lance’s features urged him to keep trying. When he comforted Keith after a nightmare, rubbing his hands along his back and kissing along his temples, it gave him the courage to close his eyes and welcome sleep into his brain again.

Some people talked about fluttering hearts and butterfly filled stomachs with their lovers and, sure, Keith had his fair share of that, but those weren’t the feelings he thought of upon hearing Lance’s name. No, he thought of tranquility, of ease, and of patience. Because those were all the things Lance made him feel on a daily basis.

There were times when he was infuriated, ready to skewer the first person he saw, but then the first person ended up being his husband, and the anger deflated. Like he’d been pumped full of hot air, but Lance wrapped his arms around him and squeezed all the discomfort out, easing Keith’s muscles to circle around Lance, instead of the hilt of his blade. And, just like the rest of Lance, that feeling was warm.

Keith was like steam and fire with everyone, harsh and constantly heating his surroundings to push people away, but the moment Lance showed up, he’d mellow into a dull smolder. Butterflies were always in his stomach, an anxious feeling perpetually urging him to keep moving, to do more, and to shove forward and through any trouble he’d face. Lance was the one thing that made the butterflies stop and settle, allowing him to be slow, gentle, sweet, and better than he ever thought _he,_ the angsty sob story from the Galra kingdom, could be. He made the head knight _want_ to be gentle, too.

Yes, there were obviously times he’d been filled with rough, passionate love and the desire to act upon it. And he’d give into those cravings just as quickly as the gentler ones, since Lance definitely enjoyed them, and he’d never been able to deny Lance anything. But when he’d think of his husband on a simple, average day, he’d have the rare need to put someone else before himself, to find joy in someone else’s joy, and to be as tender and gentle as he could be with someone’s emotions. The sight of Lance crying inspired him to use soft strokes when picking up the tears, and to let his fingers linger, tracing mindless circles on the skin until it was dry again. The sight of Lance smiling made him want to protect the grin and kiss the subtle bulges in his cheeks, simply to be closer to him and make him giggle. The sight of Lance doing _anything_ filled Keith with such an intense drive to love, and to _show_ his love, it was overwhelming. If you’d told him as a child that he’d grow up to love someone as purely and as strongly as he loved Lance, he would have laughed and called you a sentimental, old fool.

Now it seemed _he_ was the sentimental, old fool because he couldn’t bear to let go of the soft love he’d found. He just couldn’t stand the idea of losing it. And that was why he wanted to stop seeing Lance in his surroundings, because every time he did, he’d be filled with the precise ideas of losing him that he couldn’t stand. Even the repetitive sound of his feet on the hard floors made him think of his husband; the way his footsteps failed to keep a steady pattern, skittering about whenever he was in a good mood. Keith tried to silence his footfalls. He focused so hard on the attempted quietude, he’d stubbed the metal toe of his boot against a stair. It didn’t hurt, thanks to the aforementioned metal, but it woke him from his stupor.

“This is where we split up,” Lotor said. “You guys continue up those stairs and the main corridor should take you above ground near the castle. The other mage and I will turn here to walk to the tower.”

Everyone nodded, and as Pidge started to leave with Lotor, Keith placed a hand on her shoulder. “Be careful, okay?” The woman laughed.

“Don’t turn into a good leader on me now, man!” She brushed Keith’s fingers from her clothing. “Besides, you’re gonna be the one in the dark.” And then she jogged away to catch up with the Galra prince. The head knight didn’t like the way she was putting distance between them, nor did he like the darkness she left behind.

Pidge was alright with it, though, because, while she wouldn’t say she trusted Lotor, she did see the value he added to the team. They wouldn’t be able to get into Lance’s cell without the power of _two_ mages, after all. But, despite her temporary loan of trust, she didn’t start any conversations with Lotor. They walked with only the sound of kicked pebbles to fill their ears.

It wasn’t long before the tunnel ended and they sprinted from its opening to the shadow of a tower up ahead. From their position at its base, the sun shone around its edges about three quarters of the way up, and Pidge had to squint to make out its spiraled roof. Circling just below that roof, by about fifteen feet, was a ledge that rounded the circumference of the pillar, which Pidge figured had a balcony type purpose. She assumed that was where they were headed and began to prepare a teleportation spell.

“We can’t teleport,” Lotor said, approaching the structure and testing his grip on a few of its cracked bricks. They flaked powder into his hands. Pidge stopped her preparation, giving the prince an incredulous look. He’d known what face she’d worn without even looking and addressed her confusion without being asked for clarification. “If Haggar is up there, she’ll see us teleport and our stealth tactics will have lost their stealth. Besides, we don’t know if she has any spells preventing us, and whether or not they would alert her of our attempts. It’s safer to climb.”

Pidge didn’t like the facts, but they were indeed facts, so she began to mirror Lotor’s movements, prodding bricks and learning the best maneuvers to climb the hundred foot tower. She stayed only a few feet from the ground while practicing, but by the time she was ready to begin her ascent, Lotor had already made it ten feet up. _Show off._

Had she known she’d be rockclimbing today, the mage would have packed better shoes. She kept lagging farther behind the Galra prince, her feet slowing her down with the telltale aching of blisters on her toes. And the bricks had once been the clean work expected of a castle, she was sure, but now they were all busted around the edges, forming sharp ridges that cut her fingers as they brushed along the corners. The grainy bits of stone were lodged into her skin and it was fairly uncomfortable, but she was halfway up the tower and there was no way she’d turn back; it was the same distance there as it was to the top.

It wasn’t until about three fourths up that the pain became near unbearable. Her hands were bleeding too much now, the liquid seeping from the wounds wetting her grip and making her fingers slip more than was safe. She looked up at the distance between her and the ledge she was trying to reach. Not an impossible distance, but it had started to look more daunting and farfetched for her to reach. Sweat made her glasses slip down her nose when she turned away from the sky and back to her hands. She knocked her wrist against them, then she lifted her hand again, a few drops of blood splattering along the glass before her fingers clasped around the brick.

Taking a few more steps up, she checked her distance again. It wasn’t much closer than it had been a few seconds prior. Her attention turned to the puffs of grey clouds rolling over the top of the tower and she swore the peak of the structure’s roof was cutting them in two like a softened stick of butter. It was on a mountain, after all. Lotor was getting closer to the ledge, damn his long legs, and Pidge noticed the he hung a few feet below it, waiting for Hunk’s signal to go the rest of the way. The signal didn’t come before clattering, metallic noises.

And then a sword slipped over the ledge, angling at one of Lotor’s hands. He let go of the wall with that hand, releasing a few choice words the same way he did the tower. The prince was left scrambling down the sharp bricks in an attempt to dodge the swings of the blade aiming for his hands. One made contact, and he lost his grip for a second, falling down until he reattached to the wall about seven feet above Pidge. The woman honestly had no idea how he’d managed to connect himself to the tower again.

“What’s attacking?” Before Lotor could answer, the familiar face of a guardian appeared over the rim of the ledge. It fired a few projectile spells, the electricity narrowly missing Pidge’s shoulder, before it began to place its feet on the tower wall. It was scrambling downward, feet clinging to the bricks in what seemed to be an impossible manner, sticking straight out like the pull of gravity was directing it towards the tower, rather than the ground below. She thought about it, anxiety manifesting in rapidfire debates with the laws of physics. _If something’s walking on the wall, does that make its normal force perpendicular to the pull of gravity? Even though technically there’s nothing pushing it against the wall, so--_ Pidge attributed it to some sort of magnet technology within the bricks, or just plain old magic, because she didn’t want to think about the physics of the matter while it was walking straight towards her. “Shit!”

She pulled a hand back long enough to aim an electricity spell into its cannon. There was another shot that blasted and cancelled hers out, though, and then proceeded to singe the hairs atop her head. It felt like a sunburn had begun to form on her scalp as it passed and the heat was what told her it was too close to her skull. Her hand gripped the wall again. She couldn’t keep firing spells like that; her aim wasn’t precise enough while she was swinging precariously from a few loose bricks. She needed a different strategy.

How was it clinging to the walls? If there was iron inside the bricks, it could be some sort of magnet mechanism in the guardian’s feet, like she’d considered earlier. Now, she didn’t know much about magnets, but what Pidge _did_ know was that if you heat a magnet hot enough, or hit it hard enough, it would demagnetize. And if her theory about how it was on the walls was correct, that meant demagnetizing its feet would send it plummeting one hundred feet down, to the stone ground below. Here’s to hoping her physics textbook was right.

Lifting a bloody hand to fire a wind spell at one of the guardian’s eight feet, she watched the force of it connect with the same strength as a sledge hammer. And the foot began to dangle limply instead of clinging to the wall. That left seven more legs and not much distance between Pidge and the approaching enemy. Luckily, Lotor had caught onto her plan—though she doubted he understood the physics of it, based on the confused expression he wore—and he climbed down so they were at about the same height on the tower. He began launching wind spells, too, with the same immense strength, until together the two mages had detached all of its limbs from the iron infused bricks.

And it began to fall.

Straight down.

While Pidge was still immediately below it.

She reached a hand to the side of her, but the blood on her palm made it slip off the brick uselessly. Glancing back up, she realized she was out of time and that she was going to be dropping those one hundred feet with the creature. Lotor grabbed her wrist just in time, yanking her out of the way of her impending doom. She hung numbly from his grip for a few seconds, contemplating her almost untimely demise. Then a clatter rang in the air, as the pieces of the destroyed guardian were launched around the ground underneath her dangling feet.

“Get back on the wall,” the prince hissed, wincing from the strain of holding both his lanky self and the load of a grown ass woman. “You’re the size of a peanut, but you’re sure as hell not the weight of one.” Had the man _not_ just saved her life, she would have launched him to join the shattered guardian at the base of the tower. She gripped the wall again, settling all of her limbs in place, before she nodded and Lotor released her wrist. Pidge supposed she trusted the man more now than she had before climbing the tower.

They resumed their ascent.

By the time the pair got to the heavily anticipated ledge, Pidge’s hands felt like she’d been wearing gloves made of cheese graters for the last hour. She wanted nothing more than to grip that ledge and get back onto her feet, and onto flat ground, and no longer hanging over the broken remains of what could have had her squashed beneath it. But as she reached out, Lotor told her to wait.

Right. Hunk’s signal. If they weren’t sure Haggar was in the throne room, they couldn’t go in yet lest there be a possibility that she see them. But her arms were on _fire._ She wanted a break, to stand again, but all she could do was watch the windowsills of the castle farther up the mountain and await her friend’s appearance. It didn’t take long. Unsurprising, considering the way fighting the guardian extended the time it took to scale the tower. Hunk’s form climbed to his post, and only a minute or so after that, Keith and Shiro had apparently started their stalling because he gave the signal.

Pidge thrust herself over the ledge with more upper body strength than she thought she possessed in her skinny, twig arms. She scrambled to the doorway of Haggar’s room, Lotor on her tail, and the two smashed the wood in. No enchantments or booby traps there, at least. Then, they got to work searching for the mirror. There wasn’t an obvious one, like a part of a vanity or hanging on a wall in the tiny room. They began moving furniture in hopes of finding the doorway to Lance’s cell.

Most of the furniture was in awful shape. Drawer handles littered the ground around the dresser, the queen’s bed frame was more than a little cracked, and the wardrobe leaning on the wall tilted haphazardly to one side, two of its legs missing. Pidge wondered if a tornado had gone through, or if the queen just used this space as a panic room, or something. As she checked under the bed, she voiced her question.

“What the hell happened in here?” It was really meant to be rhetorical, but Lotor didn’t seem too keen on picking up on social cues with the way he was currently focused, and he answered anyway.

“When Altea attacked all those years ago, Iago came into the castle personally, looking for my father. After the king was dealt with, he came here to get Haggar. I assume he tore the place up looking, when he couldn’t find her.” Now that he’d given an answer like that, Pidge felt bad about asking such a rude and pointed question. Lotor didn’t seem to have taken offense, though.

Pidge moved to the crooked wardrobe without a word. She figured the place was already trashed as it was, so she didn’t check behind it carefully. Putting her back against the side with legs, she pushed with her thigh muscles and it wobbled over, crashing to the floor and sending splintered wood across the carpet. Pidge’s instincts proved formidable, since there the mirror was, hanging, just as crooked, on the wall. When she brought her head closer, she could see the shine of an enchantment cast on its surface. They’d found the entrance.

Lotor joined her by the object, a spell already brewing between his fingertips. Pidge copied the spell, growing it to its fullest potential. Haggar was one of the greatest spell casters the world as a whole had ever known; Pidge had heard her name in magic history classes long before she was old enough to know about the politics of Altea’s neighboring kingdom. It was a tad intimidating to be trying to destroy one of her enchantments with a comparatively weak spell, but Pidge was confident that, with the combined strength of both her and Lotor’s spellcasting, they’d be powerful enough to break through.

Once again, Pidge found herself correct in her assumptions, the glass of the mirror shattering when she and the Galra prince cast their spells. Only the frame remained, but through it, she could see the crouched form of her companion. She grinned, stepping over the shards of broken mirror on the already wrecked carpet. If she’d been superstitious, she might have been worried about some sort of curse. Would she split the bad luck with Lotor? Three and a half years each? That didn’t seem right.

Lance looked tired, eyes bloodshot and head hung low. His lips were trembling and Pidge could see the rest of him shaking in much the same way. But upon the shattering of the mirror, he looked hastily up and his broken features softened into an equally exhausted smile. Pidge hadn’t known the witch very long, but she considered him an acquaintance nonetheless, and she was excited to have found him. At least his assured safety would bring her team captain some relief from the endless turmoil of a missing husband. And then she could go back home to Altea and sleep in a comfortable bed again.

“Taylor!” She hadn’t thought to call him by his real name; she’d spent more time with Taylor than she had with Lance, after all. Her footsteps got less careful the closer to the mirror frame she walked. She heard a shard of glass crunch beneath her boot and, looking down at the noise, she saw a light reflecting in one of the other fragments. Her sight flew to Lance first, quickly assessing his expression for any sign of a threat. He might have been able to see more of the light source than Pidge could.

And apparently, he had, because he pushed himself onto bound ankles to lunge towards her, a muffled cry falling from his mouth. His eyes were wide and warning as he fell back onto his knees. Pidge whipped around to face where Lotor had been behind her. “My apologies,” the Galra prince muttered, an electricity spell crackling in the palm of his hand. “It’s nothing personal.”

Pidge couldn’t have gotten out of the way in time, even if she hadn’t slipped up. She stumbled over a broken piece of wood from the wardrobe, kneecaps making a snapping sound at the sheer force with which she hit the ground. The mage hadn’t even had the time to piece together whether or not the bones had been broken, before a pulsating electricity was draped over her brain, and darkness was thrown over her eyes. She should have listened to her team leader. She hadn’t been careful. Lotor had played her like a fiddle. Her body followed her knees, crashing to the ground and drawing another stifled cry from Lance. In hindsight, maybe she should have been superstitious.

The prince turned to the prisoner in the cell. Lance had backed himself into the corner, fear in his eyes. It was a feral expression, truly the face of a cornered animal, and it wasn’t hard to see why. His first impression of Lotor had been the betrayal of Pidge; he was right to mistrust him. Lotor approached anyway. He crunched glass beneath his heels the same way Pidge had, but the sounds from his movements felt as though they were louder. Maybe it was the way they worked in tandem with Lance’s pulse in his ears to fill him with complete and utter terror. The witch wanted _out._

Lance wanted to cast a spell, any spell, to stop the prince’s steady pace forward. He hadn’t slept to replenish the magic in his veins, though. Not since the projection spell for Keith. He barely had an ounce of potential in his body, but he was sure as hell going to try to fight back, anyway. Lance was so close to reaching his husband, he couldn’t afford to give up now, not when his husband had fought so hard to save him. A weak spell began popping along his wrist and it sparked down his tendons and into the palm of his hand. He couldn’t aim it with his wrists bound, but if the prince tried to grab him, he’d be close enough to touch with the lightning in his hand.

Lotor had reached him now, kneeling in front of Lance calmly. _Just a little closer._ His eyes weren’t malicious, his face wasn’t contorted into a vicious scowl like you’d expect of someone who’d just betrayed a teammate. He didn’t look like the cliche villains that would haunt the underside of a child’s bed at night, or linger in the darkness to strike when your back was turned. He looked calculating and assured in himself. Something must have really fueled his drive because the determination in his eyes was practically tangible.

He bent closer, rummaging in his pocket for something Lance was too anxious to care for. The brunet was waiting for the moment Lotor got within reach of his hands, paying attention to nothing else until the prince got even closer. He’d retrieved whatever it was he wanted from his pocket, and his mouth hung over Lance’s neck. He was looking over the witch’s shoulder, his breath unintentionally fanning along Lance’s skin. The brunet squirmed, hating the feeling of it.

It felt wrong. The only one who’d huffed against his neck like that, in over six years, was Keith. Knowing someone else, even accidentally, was doing something that only his husband should be doing made his skin crawl. The way Keith’s heated breath toasted his skin was pleasant, a promise of more to come and an assurance of the touch of loving lips. But the way Lotor’s scorching breath seared his shoulder felt like the embodiment of a spike in anxiety. It felt like the air carved words into his skin, a warning, and it read, “run.”

And Lance was prepared to do as it said when the prince reached around Lance to get to his bound wrists. That was his chance. He twitched his hands towards Lotor’s as best he could with the rope around his skin, but as he touched the man, it was without result. The magic had been cut off. It was then Lance noticed a new feeling higher up on his wrist: the cold embrace of an enchanted garment. He didn’t have to look to know that Lotor had put a magic snuffer on his arm. Lance’s last line of defense had been compromised.

The Galra Prince yanked the rope holding Lance’s wrists as he stood up. The prisoner followed the movement, standing weakly at his side. Lotor wrapped one arm about Lance’s stomach, tugging him into his hold in the same manner he’d carry a book under his arm. He carried him with only the one limb, Lance finding it odd that a man shaped so much like a beanpole had such an immense amount of strength. Not even Keith could hold him like that; not that he wanted him to. He was much more a bridal style kind of guy.

Lance almost giggled at the thought of his husband carrying him like that. His exhaustion was fogging his mind. Or was it some side effect of the bracelet Lotor had forced on him? Either way, his head was hazy and he hated it. Anxiety was shooting through his veins at the loss of focus. If there was ever a time he couldn’t give into sleep deprivation and the temptation of a nap, this was it. His brain felt like it was spinning, like the center of it had been turned to mush and was sloshing around inside the rest. Like his brain was butter and someone had held a match over the middle of it until a puddle of liquid rested inside the solid. It made him want to sleep.

Lotor was moving towards the exit now, and Lance started to writhe. The prince gripped him harder, but the more Lance struggled, the more it got to be like holding a bar of soap in the shower, or a flopping fish. Whether it was intentional or not, Lance didn’t know, but Lotor had smacked his head against the frame of the mirror as they stepped out, and he stopped moving. More of the brunet’s brain began to turn to soup. He’d cut his forehead against a remaining shard of glass on the frame, but he wasn’t conscious enough to feel it.

The two were in the bedroom, directed at the door to the ledge. They passed Pidge’s unconscious form on the carpet and Lance started to shift in Lotor’s hold again. He felt awful. Pidge had been hurt because of _him,_ and he wanted to get to her and make sure she’d be okay. He couldn’t even tell if she was breathing from where he was. The brunet had begun to kick his legs up at Lotor’s arm, but the prince remained unaffected by the bruises Lance was undoubtedly leaving along his skin.

He got annoyed eventually, though. Before they could get to the ledge, the prince unexpectedly threw him, stomach side down, onto the ground. The prisoner scrambled to flip over, terror filling him at the inability to see the threat. He hadn’t decided what was worse: not knowing the threat at all, or knowing the threat, but being unable to fight it. The current scenario was a little bit of both, so it didn’t matter.

Lance started to scramble back, splintered pieces of wood digging into the arms stretched behind his back. It was a useless effort, though, since Lotor followed his retreat and placed a foot harshly along his chest to stop him from going further. He stomped it once, making Lance screech through his gag and go completely still. Lotor resettled the brunet under his arm, this time so he was faced backwards. He couldn’t see where they were going now and it was terrifying. They’d been approaching the ledge and he could no longer tell how quickly they were advancing on it. He’d gotten a glimpse of the drop when Haggar brought him in; it was not a distance he wanted to fall.

The man had stopped squirming. He bent his neck forward, far enough that he could see past his stomach to the ground Lotor was heading towards. He watched the change in flooring, from carpet to stone, get closer to the prince’s feet, but their advance halted before they got there. His head tilted again, this time towards Lotor’s other arm, as it gave a wave around the wall, without exposing Lance to the light outside.

Lance didn’t know the plan Lotor and the team had made, so he didn’t know what the prince was waving at, and his brain was too soft in his skull to think and figure out that the signal was directed at Hunk. All he could pick up on was the shrill noise that rang from the castle atop the mountain, as the archer’s signal arrow went through Haggar instead of the plush carpeting along the floor of the throne room. Lance began to writhe again, confusion clouding his mind. He could recognize the sound as a scream, but whose had it been? He feared that it was someone else on the team being injured for his sake. His body struggled faster when he considered the fact that it could have been Keith. Was that what his husband sounded like? It was hard to remember with his head swimming in its own brain.

And then Lotor teleported the two and his head wasn’t just swimming, it was drowning. A migraine was pulsating between his brows and he stopped shifting, searching for a way to tilt his head that would stop the pain. Being forced through a portal without any magic—due to both the band around his wrist and the way he’d overexerted himself—caused such a great amount of pain, that it was almost enough to knock him out. The blurry way his thoughts were stringing together got thicker and harder to maneuver through.

His head fell forward; Lance was too close to unconsciousness to have the energy to hold it up. And he could see past his stomach again, and past Lotor’s feet, and ahead a couple yards. On the expanse of floor behind him, the brunet could make out the metal shine of his husband’s armor, the reflection of the setting sun glaring off the surface of his boots. Just his boots. Not a whole fallen body, flat against the ground. Just feet and the two armored pillars rising up from them in a steady, reliable stance. _So the scream wasn’t him._

Lance swung his body forward with as much momentum as he could muster. Lotor had almost lost his grip on him then, Lance’s tangled hair falling so it was inches from the floor, before the prince resituated him. He’d been so close. The brunet kept repeating the motion, desperation making his attempts sloppier each time. He’d only gotten as far as he did before because of the suddenness of it. All he was managing to do now was piss the prince off.

Giving up wasn’t an option, though.

He was literally a few _steps_ from his husband. A couple seconds of a head start and he could make it. If he could just escape his seemingly perpetual hostage situation, he had no doubts that Keith would help the rest of the way. All Lance needed to do was his one part. And he could, if only he swung himself forward just right.

But Lotor was done putting up with his futile escape strategies. He had his own agenda of things he wanted to accomplish today, and battling a loosening grip on a squirming witch was not on that agenda. Another spell, the same he’d used on Pidge, sprang to the hand on Lance’s side. It was a slow trickle of an electric current at first, just enough to make the man in his arms limp, on the cusp of passing out, but not quite there yet.

Lance’s mind was whirring. If the spell got any stronger, even a miniscule amount, he’d pass out and he was _so close._ He couldn’t afford to miss his one opportunity for escape. He shouted a plea for help around the cloth in his mouth, a soggy cry that sounded just as miserable and helpless as he felt. It tumbled out being just barely recognizable as Keith’s name, and he saw the blurring boots across the floor stumble forward on instinct. A quick, thoughtless step that was withdrawn just as hastily. Lance whimpered, realizing his husband couldn’t help and it was all up to _him._

And _he_ couldn’t do it alone.

The spell got more intense and so did the ringing in Lance’s ears. He had a few seconds of clear headspace before sleep got its hands on him, and he used them to panic and fight off the darkness creeping into his vision. _No,_ he kept thinking, struggling now against unconsciousness instead of the invasive hand around his waist. He couldn’t stop the icy horror clawing up his arms and gripping his throat, reminding him that if he passed out, he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening. Not even through the sliver of a line of vision he had, between his stomach and the ground. If he blacked out, he wouldn’t know what happened until it was over and he woke up. He wouldn’t know what happened to _Keith_ until it had already been done. If he didn’t stay conscious, he could wake up and find himself married to a corpse.

His few seconds of thought were up, though, and the spell finally became too much to fight off. Not to say he didn’t try, of course. He gave one last hazy thought as the boots across the floor became shaded by the inside of his eyelids. The thought dripped from his lips quietly, weakly, and so dazedly that he didn’t even notice it had been released.

It was one word. One measly, muffled word. That was all his brain could manage to produce through its flickering state and past the gag in his mouth. But it was the word that meant more to him than any other word could ever hope to live up to. A word that would motivate him to do anything he needed to do. A word that could make him laugh just as easily as it was currently making water slip from his eyes. A word that he wouldn’t be able to live without.

Because it wasn’t just a word.

It was a name.

“Keith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I KNOW ALL Y'ALL LOTOR STANS ARE GONNA KILL ME (shout out to the one person who commented saying Lotor better be a good guy, I'm sorry I've betrayed you, but this whole story is already charted loosely out, it was too late to change it and I feel so bad-- no really I literally went and whined to my friends about how guilty I felt, please don't hate me ;-;)  
> BUT WORRY NOT  
> I've decided that I'm maybe (emphasis on maybe) gonna make a sequel to this fic!! And in that sequel, Lotor might get some kinda "he wasn't that evil" thing!! if y'all want me to, and would enjoy reading a sequel, that is!! Sooo if you DO want me to, please let me know in the comments cuz I'm kinda unsure if I'm going to write it (but I have a couple plot ideas if I do!)
> 
> I know Lotor is important to a lot of you, and I have control over this AU, so I'm prepared to give him some kinda redemption (if it can be done in a not too cliche way)
> 
> phew ok!  
> Let me know what you think of this chapter, a sequel, and whatever else you're feeling in the comments below!! I absolutely adore reading what you all say ;u;  
> AND THANKS FOR READING THIS FAR!! ONLY WHAT? LIKE FOUR MORE??? my eyes are burning please let me rest


	10. Futilely Outstretched Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all!!  
> I literally didn't write more than a paragraph or two yesterday, my day was so awful. I cried in my car and watched b99 and Enchanted to cheer myself up, no lie. However, I worked extra hard (after waking up at noon lol) today to get this update out for y'all! What's left? Three chapters?? HOPE YOU'RE EXCITED CUZ I AM!! 
> 
> all that said, hope you enjoy seeing Keith's thought process during last chapter's events, and happy reading!! :-)

Hunk, Keith, and Shiro spent a lot of time in those lightless tunnels. The head knight was getting antsy. They’d spent too long making too little progress and, sure, it wasn’t time they were battling against, but he knew every second they wasted was a second Lance could have been spared his suffering. Keith found himself wishing he could just _see_ Lance; he was desperate to have any reassurance that the brunet was alive, if nothing else. He couldn’t so much as _express_ what he was ready to give up to get Lance back. The only way he could describe what he’d be willing to do, willing to sacrifice, was with the word “anything.” But, apparently, even anything and everything wasn’t enough, because his husband was still very much out of his grasp.

He was climbing the stairs in the tunnel with a strong sense of stress fueling each of his heavy steps, but it wasn’t doing anything to change the fact that the staircases weren’t ending. It was infuriating, if he was being honest. Keith was an impatient person by nature and the danger in his precarious situation was doing absolutely nothing to help.

They’d stopped seeing those monsters, the ones that had almost suffocated Keith, when they hit the stairs. That was about the only plus of the upward trek. And eventually, _finally,_ they hit an expanse of flat ground at the top. Better still was the patch of orange sky Keith could see at the end of that ground. The group jogged towards the end of the tunnel and the daylight shining through.

The throne room wasn’t far away, maybe two hundred feet ahead. Keith counted his blessings that the door to the throne room was shut, otherwise Haggar might have seen their approach and the whole scheme would have been spoiled. If she went to grab Lance and found Pidge and Lotor sneaking into her room, the head knight feared what would happen to both his teammates and his husband. If this plan fell through, if something, _anything,_ went wrong, he was terrified how the backlash would apply to Lance.

Would Haggar hurt him as a sort of revenge? As a warning? Would she do it in front of Keith for the sole purpose of making him suffer alongside his husband? Keith couldn’t handle that. He’d break the moment he saw a single ounce of pain flit across his husband’s face; if he was forced to watch him get seriously hurt, he’d probably be inconsolable and useless. _Useless._

When he thought about it, he might already be pretty useless. Just knowing his husband was in danger was making his head fuzzy and his reaction speeds slow. If someone pulled a, “think fast,” he’d have an item smacking him in the face, for sure. Could he really take a powerful spellcaster like Haggar down? Could he even _stall_ her in his current state? Was he any use to Lance like this?

Keith shook his head and refocused on the castle. Hunk was climbing to where he could watch both the tower and the throne room. The moment he got there, Keith and Shiro would storm the throne room. This had to be timed _perfectly._ If they went in even a second too late, Haggar wouldn’t be distracted in time and there was a chance she would head to the tower and find Lotor and Pidge in the process of breaking in. A second too early and they could overwork themselves and run out of steam before Lance was safe. Hunk made it to his perch and they saw him signal the other half of the team.

With that, Keith sprinted at the door and kicked it down. The wood splintered and scattered about the red carpeting leading to the throne, on which Haggar was sitting. Sunlight was filtering in through the doorway Keith had forcibly opened, a golden line being dragged from where the head knight stood to where his enemy lounged. His silhouette was an inky line dripping across the whole of the floor, a puddle leaking and speading to the feet of the villainous queen. He hoped the setting sun behind him made his outline look as menacing as he felt. Had anyone more sane than the former Galra queen been positioned in front of him, they would have affirmed the danger in his stance with a surrender.

He had fire in his expression. His eyebrows were drawn together and forced down to rest in a wrathful scowl. His jaw was clenched tightly, his grinding teeth just barely visible from a part in his lips, and those lips were curled upwards in a display of disgust. His shoulders were wide, heaving with every infuriated breath he shoved past his snarling mouth. His every emotion was displayed on his body; it was the closest he’d ever gotten to wearing his heart on his sleeve. He’d bore his soul for everyone present to see. And each and every spark of fire present on his form was also seen shining in the glow of the sun’s fire around his body.

He looked like the embodiment of hell itself that had clawed its way to earth.

And his violence would undoubtedly mirror that.

Keith had paused no more than a moment in the doorway. If he didn’t strike now, Haggar would try to grab Lance. He charged her, sword drawn to reflect the same collection of the sun’s flames that caught on the ends of his hair. The woman blocked the attack seamlessly and effortlessly, a single, dry laugh tumbling from her lips as she did. Her barrier wasn’t as easy to break as Lotor’s had been and Keith put all of his weight behind his sword to break it.

“Is this really what you want? Take a second to think about whether or not I’m who you want to be fighting, right now. Think about who I’ve got.”

Keith growled, jumping back from being pressed against her magic barrier. It was smaller than Pidge’s and Lotor’s had been, maybe more condensed, making it stronger. But its small size left a lot more openings. He lunged forward again, sliding to his knees as he struck, hoping to slip underneath her shield. She sent a spell to his sword before it could hit, so the electricity climbed Keith’s blade and he was stunned long enough for her to back up. Shiro was waiting for her, though, and she was sent stumbling in yet another direction when he pointed his weapon at her as well.

“I’ve had plenty of seconds to think about what I want to do,” Keith hissed. “I’ve decided on killing you.” The witch staggered back again when he didn’t let up his advance, chasing after her with reckless abandon. Haggar was left running backwards, not able to turn forward or she’d lose her sight on them, but simultaneously too slow while facing the knights. She launched a wind spell at each of them, halting their chases enough to get a hundred extra feet between them.

Her eyes were wild, panicking orbs of glass. They swept between Shiro and Keith with a speed rivaling the wings of a hummingbird. Her attacks were sloppy, or maybe Keith’s senses were just too advanced to outsmart. Even though she wasn’t as strong as Keith had thought she would be, he was still struggling to fight her. He was wearing himself out fast. It had only been two minutes or so, but he already felt his muscles starting to drag and burn.

He stopped his pursuit for a second to catch his breath. When he stepped forward again, his thighs were stiff and uncooperative. His movements were becoming as sloppy as Haggar’s, but he couldn’t afford to pull back or ease up. A moment of an opening for her and Lance’s life was in danger. His muscles’ willingness to cooperate was inconsequential when he thought about it that way. Lance needed him more than his joints needed a break. Keith could rest when this battle was over, not a moment sooner. It would be only a few minutes of this ruthless attacking, he reminded himself. Only a few minutes until Lotor would grab Lance and bring him back. Back to Keith. Only a few minutes until Keith and Lance could see each other again.

That thought sent another surge of motivation through his body, reactivating his muscles into an even faster sprint than he’d been able to manage before. Haggar was making her way, slowly, to the opening in the doorway and Keith darted all the way around her and began to chase her back to the other end of the room; to her throne that sat next to the window Hunk was watching them through. As soon as Keith got her within the range of that window, an arrow came soaring down. On some pure stroke of luck—since Hunk hadn’t been able to aim for her, as she was out of his range of sight until the precise moment he’d fired the arrow—the projectile went straight through Haggar’s gut.

She collapsed to the ground with a high pitched shriek, the sound of it stopping both Keith’s feet and his heart. The noise made his skin crawl and he imagined Lance being the source. He reminded himself that wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. That arrow meant the battle was over; it meant Lance was _safe._ A couple more seconds and Lance would be handed back to him and they could all go home. Haggar was a few minutes of blood loss away from death, so his mission would be over, too. In a moment of smugness and relief at his supposed victory, Keith thought back to when he’d been shot by an arrow in the same way Haggar had, and he said, “Karma’s a bitch, huh?”

She didn’t respond. She was trying, futilely, to heal her own wounds. Her eyes were even less sane as she watched her own blood pool on her robes, puddling next on the ground around her. A few more seconds passed, and her healing spells stopped, along with her breathing. She was dead. Keith grinned. Now he’d get Lance back and the stress would be over. It was all downhill from here.

But he should have known better.

As the head knight turned around, he did, in fact, see Lotor. And he also saw Lance, a sight that made his footsteps slip sloppily forward. But what he didn’t see was Pidge. His steps stopped at that realization. Because there his husband was, in the arms of a stranger Keith _should not_ have trusted. He was coming to that conclusion far too late, though.

And the lateness of it was making his heart stutter, revving to a speed that was most certainly unhealthy. Lance had started to struggle in Lotor’s hold and Keith had to think about it to get his feet to remain glued to the ground. It took every ounce of his consciousness to resist his protective instinct to rush forward and impale Lotor on the end of his sword. He wanted to with every fiber of his being, but he knew Lotor could kill Lance before he even had the chance to take a step and Keith wasn’t willing to risk it.

If only Lance managed to get out of Lotor’s grip. A mere three steps of distance from the prince would give Keith enough time to get between his husband and the newfound enemy. But Lotor was already impatient and the head knight choked on unfallen tears when he watched a spell appear between his fingers. He quietly released a plea that only Shiro, who stood next to hm, could hear. “Please, no.” Lotor couldn’t kill Lance. He couldn’t. Keith wouldn’t make it. Keith _couldn’t_ make it. _Not without Lance._ No matter how much his eyes pleaded, nothing would have been able to keep Lotor’s electrified spell from touching Lance. Not even Hunk could have helped; he couldn’t see this part of the room from his perch by the window.

Keith was hyper aware of everything that was happening. Lance had stopped swinging around, but he wasn’t unconscious yet. The head knight only knew he was awake because of the broken, muffled cry of his name that came from the limp body in Lotor’s arms. In a lapse of thought, he couldn’t resist his protective instinct and his leg swung forward in a hasty step, but then he met Lotor’s calculating look. The prince had raised an eyebrow in question, silently asking Keith if his decision was a smart one. It wasn’t smart. Keith swiftly took his step back.

And then Lance whimpered and Keith’s knees couldn’t support his weight for a second. He took a breath to steady himself. The spell in Lotor’s hands grew brighter and Keith heard his name one last time, before the man in Lotor’s arms slumped further.

Keith felt utterly helpless. His hands were shaking and his sword was slipping from his grip. He’d been concerned and panicking the whole time he was chasing after Lance, but this situation was the most perilous he’d faced thus far. Lance had been in danger, sure, but at least Keith had known his captor’s intentions. But when Lotor took him, he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t given an explanation of why; he hadn’t given an explanation of his intentions. Here was a man who had just, presumably, backstabbed Pidge and he was standing a few paces from Keith, literally _holding Lance in his arms._

The head knight was sure he’d aged a decade in the last few days alone and the uncertain alarm filling his veins was damn near unrivaled. He’d gone four years being married to Lance, and two years being his boyfriend, and nothing terribly tragic had happened to them. Nothing that was coming to mind here in the throne room, at least. While that could be cast aside as merely a side effect of the stress of his current situation, he was positive nothing they’d been through could measure up to this. And as he thought about past struggles and how he handled them, really only one day came to mind.

It was winter, when Lance was nineteen and Keith was twenty; not too long after Keith had been appointed head knight and not too long after he’d received his scarf from Lance. He’d insisted upon wearing the plush fabric everywhere, and found himself fiddling with it, tracing his fingers along the pleasantly scrawled letters at the end. He could tell you each letter as he ran a fingertip along it. He knew exactly where each word and twirling design was. The knight reached the brink of crying everytime he read the word _loving_ with his hand.

But that wasn’t where his hand had been this day. No, it was wrapped around the loving heat of his husband’s fingers. Unlike on the way to the annual competition, Lance had actually brought a coat this time, but it was skewed along his shoulders and had yet to be buttoned. Keith scoffed, releasing Lance’s hand and stopping the man. If he’d been completely conscious, the brunet surely would have been embarrassed about his disheveled state, despite the fact that they were only a few steps out of the door. Keith’s job as a husband was to look out for Lance, so he began to straighten the jacket. His husband hummed tiredly when Keith began to button the garment.

“Why are we up so early?” The head knight began attempting to detangle his lover’s matted hair. He swiped it one way, then the other, but it sprang back up both times. Grunting, he silently wished Lance’s hair was as long as his own, so he could just yank it into a ponytail the same way. But then again, he looked cute with closed eyelids and ruffled hair falling just barely over his ears and forehead. His eyes opened slowly, pupils shrinking as he adapted to the light outside. And then his eyes twinkled in the sunlight reflecting off the icy ground, the blue irises shining the same silver as the snow that had fallen while they slept. Keith decided he liked the hair the way it was, away from that gorgeous color.

“I have the day off,” Keith answered, sliding his hand from Lance’s bangs to the back of his head. He pulled his husband forward to kiss his brow. “I wanted to spend it with my husband.” Lance squirmed from the affection, making a disgruntled noise as he did.

“Why can’t we spend the day inside? It’s cold,” he whined, then leaned back into Keith’s touch to nuzzle his nose against the knight’s chin. His husband chuckled, nudging his hands to rest along Lance’s spine. He began to tug the brunet from the door. The man followed the tug, stumbling further into Keith’s arms, which was not the intention, but certainly not a disappointment. The knight smirked.

“You’ll like this plan better, trust me.” Lance grunted again, but he was waking up, so his steps were steadier. “Besides, if you’re cold, you can always get closer.” He felt the brunet’s dimples shift against his collarbones. _Cute._

He was fully awake by the time they reached the largest street in Castle Town, and fully aware of where they were headed. “The castle? Lame.” But he hadn’t made any effort to retract from Keith’s side or slow his pace. In fact, he’d snuggled even closer and taken the unembroidered tail of Keith’s scarf and draped it over his own shoulders. The head knight loosened his scarf so Lance could have more of the fabric about his neck.

“Nah,” Keith said. “I just need something, then we’ll go where we’re actually headed.”

“Ugh, couldn’t you have gotten it _before_ waking me up?” Keith shook his head, and before long, he was drawing Lance over the moat and towards his intended location. Well, more accurately, his intended object. The brunet yawned again, squinting at the creature Keith was bringing him to face. “Is that a horse?”

The head knight grinned, running ahead so his scarf unravelled from Lance’s neck and fluttered behind him. Lance jogged to catch up while Keith was sliding his foot into the stirrup and swinging himself up over the animal’s back with ease. He’d done his fair share of horseback training at the start of his career, and a lot of his missions required the upkeep of the skill. He extended a hand to his husband with a wink. “Need a ride?”

As always, initiating the flirting game with the impression that he’d win was a mistake. Lance hummed, shooting a wink of his own. “I don’t know, babe. Am I riding the horse or something else?” Keith choked, pulling his hand to the reins of his horse and turning away from his husband’s suggestively curled lips. He had seen a fiery color cross Lance’s cheekbones before he shot his line back, though, and Keith took a little pride in that.

“Well, if you’d rather walk,” he drawled, slowly trailing his eyes back to Lance and urging his horse forward slowly. The brunet stumbled after the movement, gripping the laces of Keith’s boots weakly and pouting. Smiling, the head knight offered his hand to Lance again, helping him up onto the horse behind him. His husband was quick to wrap his arms about Keith’s waist and press his nose between his shoulder blades, kissing the spot gently.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, tightening his hold and stealing the tail of Keith’s scarf again. “So, where are we going?” He tugged his nose back and forth along the skin peeking from between the collar of his husband’s shirt and the scarf around his neck, dropping a few more kisses there. Keith laughed, refused to answer the question, and spurred his horse into motion once more. Its hooves were clopping over the drawbridge and back into town. Lance groaned. “Boo, no answer? You’re no fun.” He lifted his face to watch his town drift past.

Now, Lance had never had any shame in marrying Keith, nor did he feel embarrassed to be caught exchanging affections with the man in public. That said, being paraded through the entirety of Castle Town on horseback with his _celebrity_ of a husband was a little overwhelming. He had a large personality, sure, but having, what felt like, everyone’s eyes on him was not really his idea of a good time. The whole town seemed to look up and smile at the head knight as he passed and Lance started to get dizzy with all the attention. He ducked his head back to the space between his husband’s shoulder blades.

Shortly thereafter, he felt the rumble of a laugh against his hidden cheeks. “You said I was warm. Maybe you should feel your own face.” Lance flustered more, pinching the tight flesh of his husband’s stomach from where his hands were wrapped around. The action went without response. It probably hurt his fingertips more than Keith. Damn his muscles.

“I’m smothering you with your pillow tonight.” That received another laugh and Lance found himself flushing further at the sound.

Most of the time, Keith wasn’t exactly known for his jokes or his playful side, but he most certainly partook in both. At least around Lance. Lance _relished_ the intimacy of his laugh; how it was reserved for such special occasions and how it was a sound he knew he inspired more than anyone else. He loved the way it rang in his ears and in his heart, and he absolutely adored the way it moved through Keith’s entire form, tilting his chin up ever so slightly to angle the noise at the sky. Gods, Lance was utterly smitten.

He shut his eyes to fully appreciate the rumble of the noise and before he’d even realized it was happening, he was asleep. Steady, warm, calming breaths were slipping under the hem of Keith’s collar, dripping down his spine in a way that told the head knight what had happened. He removed one of his hands from the reins to grip Lance’s wrist so he could be sure his husband didn’t lose his grip about his waist while asleep. When their hands met, the dozing man released a soft sigh and tightened his grip subconsciously. The knight smiled.

Keith liked that part of Lance a lot. Maybe his husband worked himself too hard at his shop, or maybe it was because he’d stayed up too late doing something reckless and arguably pointless, like recipe searching, the night before. But no matter the reason, Lance was always falling asleep on him. In his arms, against his back, nose to his chest, spine across his lap; it didn’t matter _how_ he was close to Keith, only that he _was._ The head knight loved that his husband was always so comfortable around him. That he trusted him enough to keep him safe if he snoozed with irresponsible timing. And _obviously_ Keith would always be sure he was safe, asleep or not, because he’d promised as much when they got married.

_Though it seemed he’d failed that part of his vows, now that he was staring at his husband’s unconscious form in the arm of his enemy._

When Lance awoke again that winter day, it was to the feeling of Keith peeling his hands from his waist. The brunet stirred, pulling his hands to his stomach with a muttered apology. He didn’t recognize where they were, confusion the most present feature on his face. Keith got off the horse, opening his arms to Lance, who laughed at the gesture. He’d waved the arms off because he deemed himself capable of climbing down, but as he put his foot into the stirrup, his toe got caught. Keith had turned away after Lance waved his assistance off, so now the brunet was falling and figuring he was going home with a broken nose. Luckily, he’d made some sort of startled sound, and Keith whipped back around and caught his face against his chest before it was cracked open on the snowy ground.

Lance apologized again. Keith lifted him so his foot could detangle from the stirrup, before shaking his head. “Maybe you shouldn’t try to do that right after waking up, huh?” The brunet lifted his face to stick his tongue out in a way Keith could see. Then, he started swinging his legs childishly with the intention of getting his husband to put him down. It didn’t work, the man instead draping his arms under Lance’s thighs to carry him completely while ignoring the protests being shouted at the movement. He talked a good game, but the brunet was wrapping his legs around Keith’s hips without an ounce of resistance. “You aren’t allowed to see where we’re going yet. It’s a surprise.” Keith started walking.

“You could have just asked me to close my eyes!” Lance was looking over his husband’s shoulder at where the horse stood, then at where they’d come from, then at how low the sun still was in the sky. He hadn’t been asleep for long, then. And he could still see Castle Town as a speck a handful of miles away, so they hadn’t gone too far, either. But he still didn’t know where they were, so he started to crane his neck to see. Keith pushed his head back over his shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sure you would have listened,” he muttered sarcastically, flicking the nape of his husband’s neck and stopping. “Anyway, you can look now.” Lance was placed back into the snow and he spun eagerly around, Keith steadying him when he swayed to the side again.

“It’s,” he paused, trying to keep himself from sounding too underwhelmed. “It’s a lake.” He looked back at his taller husband, finding the proud smile on his face far more attractive than the frozen body of water ahead of him. Not to say that the lake wasn’t a sight to see. It was framed by snow and it had a shimmering, azure surface, reflecting the morning sun and sparkling. Still, Lance thought Keith’s smile was brighter and even more pleasant to look at. But he was biased.

“Yep,” the knight said, turning his smug gaze from the ice to Lance. “Now, for the good part.” Lance raised his eyebrows. Good part? It was cold as hell, could there even _be_ a good part? Keith jogged back to the horse and started to dig around in a bag hanging from its saddle. Foolish move, since his husband wasn’t going to let his fallen guard go unattacked. He bent over and scooped up a handful of snow, packing it into a ball, before launching it right at his husband. Specifically, at his ass. Keith almost fell over when it hit, turning around to give Lance an angry look. “What the hell, Lance?”

The question was answered when the brunet bent over again to gather more snow. Keith mirrored the motion, sprinted at Lance, and stuffed the ice down his coat while laughing. The tailor was screeching, having dropped his snowball to smack his hands against the front of his outfit to get the cold to fall out. When it finally did, Keith was still laughing, so Lance grabbed another fistful of snow and forced it into his open mouth. Sputtering, the knight stuck his tongue out and rubbed his hands against it in a futile attempt to get the melting substance off. He stopped trying, choosing to instead admire the beautiful curve of Lance’s face, the whole thing scrunched in a noisy grin that was leaking laughter.

He stuck his frozen hands around the back of Lance’s neck and dipped forward to press a kiss to the grin he was watching. His husband was surprised at the affection, his eyes having been closed in his giggle fit, but Keith felt him smile even more before returning the gesture. Lance lifted his hands to the knight’s hair, fiddling with the ponytail hung over his shoulders and tugging on it lightly. Keith hummed at the sensation. He spread his fingers and slid his thumbs so they brushed the sweet spot behind Lance’s jaw, dragging them in circles until he got a sigh from the lips moving against his own. But then, Lance pulled Keith away with his ponytail.

“Your lips are so cold,” he whined, releasing his hold on Keith’s hair. The knight rolled his eyes, peppering kisses along every inch of his husband’s face. “No, stop! That’s too cold!” Keith tilted his head so it was his nose tracing over Lance’s skin, and he got another loud squeal. “That’s even worse!” Finally, it went back to just their lips together; no more icy, tickling kisses against cheeks and foreheads and chins.

Lance smiled again, then slipped away from Keith’s warming lips to trace a few kisses downward until he could go no further, stopped by the man’s askew scarf. “You’re right,” he said, raising his half lidded gaze to meet Keith’s. The knight hummed in question, now rubbing even more distracted and even lighter shapes into the skin of his husband’s neck. “This _is_ the good part.” That woke Keith from having his attention diverted.

“Huh? No, no, wait, I had something planned, I promise.” Lance was tickling the underside of Keith’s jaw with the curls of his bedhead, making it impossible to remember what that something was, though. “You’re just,” Lance kissed back up Keith’s neck, innocent and sweet, “Gods, you’re so distracting.” The brunet pulled back, smiling.

“Fine, fine. You’re free! Get your surprise, husband dearest!” Keith couldn’t decide if he liked the freedom more or not. Either way, he begrudgingly returned to the horse and began to rummage through his bag’s contents once more. When he finally found what he was looking for, he brought it out before moving back to the edge of the lake. Lance had turned his back and bent over the frozen water to drag his fingers along the slick surface. Foolish move, since his husband wasn’t going to let his fallen guard go unattacked.

Keith crept up behind him and, placing his retrieved objects silently into the snow, grabbed a handful of the slush. He swung his hand forward to slap the substance across his husband’s rump and upper thighs. “Payback!” Keith laughed at the way Lance screeched, losing the balance of his arms and clonking his head onto the ice. The brunet turned back around while glaring and rubbing his forehead.

“That hurt, you asshat!” His line of sight shifted from Keith’s cackling face to what he’d placed in the snow and Lance’s glare softened. He looked back at Keith with gentle eyes. “You brought me to ice skate?” Keith stopped laughing, shifting his scarf awkwardly and sliding a hand up to his bangs to fiddle nervously. He looked to the shoes on the ground instead of meeting Lance’s eyes.

“Yeah, uh,” he gulped, chest getting tight. “You went out of your way to make me the scarf and I, well, I’m not good at making things, so I thought…” he let his already weak voice trail off, no longer particularly confident in his attempt to woo his husband. “I asked the queen if I could borrow the skates and the horse, ‘cuz I figured you might enjoy this, but if you don’t wanna, we don’t have to.” He looked back to Lance when the brunet wrapped himself around Keith’s knees in what Keith assumed was a hug. It was hard to tell with him standing and Lance still kneeling.

“Babe,” he squeaked, squishing his cheek against Keith’s thigh. “You didn’t have to do that!” Keith saw him look up with watery eyes and found himself kneeling next to the man, disregarding the discomfort of the cold snow seeping through his pants. An apology slipped from his lips, thinking Lance didn’t like his plan. He brushed the tears from Lance’s eyelashes, cupping his cheeks, even when he shook his head back and forth. “No, I mean, not that I’m saying I don’t want to! I just don’t want you to think your gift was for some kinda payoff in the end, I did it because I--”

“Wanted me to know you love me,” Keith finished, pressing a kiss to the man’s forehead. “I know, Lance. And I want you to know I love you the same, okay?” Lance smiled and reached for an ice skate to pull into his lap. He was tracing over the smooth blade absentmindedly while Keith watched anxiously to be certain the sniffling brunet didn’t cut his finger on the sharp edge. Lance finally nodded at Keith’s statement, before beginning to take off his shoes.

“You gonna be cheesy and hold my hand as we skate?”

Keith made a scoffing noise. “Obviously.”

He stayed true to his word and the two spent most of the morning scratching thoughtless shapes into the ice. Lance hadn’t grown up in Castle Town, he grew up in a hotter part of Altea, so he didn’t have much experience with snow or ice skating and all of his skills had been developed since Keith took him ice skating the first time. He’d had enough practice to skate independently, but Keith preferred keeping their hands together so he was close enough to chat with as they skated. And so he could keep his promise. Clearly.

But at one point, he asked Lance if he’d mind if he let go to skate a couple feet ahead, faster than Lance liked to go. The brunet laughed and nodded, happy to watch his husband satisfy his need for an adrenaline rush and a boost in speed. He continued his slow circles around the edge of the lake while Keith rushed past, overlapping him quite a few times. Keith would turn to wink each time he passed Lance. At around noon, or so they assumed, he’d gotten his fill and he returned to the snow around the lake. Lance was getting tired, too, so he was headed to where Keith stood.

Towards the end of his steady, slow skate to Keith, maybe five feet from the snowbank, the toe of his skate caught in a dent on the ice. Keith laughed when he fell forward, the side of Lance’s face landing in the snow by Keith’s feet. His husband had cushioned the majority of his fall by bracing his hands on the snow, so he hadn’t been injured. That was Keith’s expectation, at least. His laugh moved through his body, as usual, and he turned his chin to the rolling clouds.

His lips vibrated with a kind of raspberry, before he started to speak. “Smooth, Lance,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone. Keith was anticipating some kind of snarky reply, or a laugh, or some noise of disapproval, but he didn’t get anything. His eyes moved back down to Lance in concern, worried he’d offended his husband with the joke. The brunet had lifted his cheek from the snow, but he was still leaning over where he’d landed and Keith couldn’t see his expression.

“Keith,” he said, voice shaking. The man in question immediately snapped to attention, protective instincts quick to react to the tone of Lance’s voice. He kneeled by Lance, the snow where his face had landed coming into view, as he did. It was a deep red and his heart jumped to his throat at the sight. His fingers hastily gripped Lance’s face, pulling it upwards so he could find the source of all the blood. “I’m sorry,” Lance said, eyes starting to water, “I should have been watching where I was going. I don’t know what happened.” His voice was trembling more now, his eyes were shifting along Keith’s face in fear; he couldn’t see the injury himself, so Keith’s reaction was the only way he could tell how bad it was. That, and the blood still dripping onto the snow.

The knight tilted Lance’s face away, heart stopping at the gash on his face. It was a centimeter or two above his eyebrow, on the ridge of bone between his forehead and temple, leaning more into the fleshy expanse of his temple. Not a visibly fatal amount of deep, but enough to cause quite a lot of bleeding, evidently. Keith reached up to the spot, fingers running around the cut with hopes to wipe the blood off. It only smeared.

“Gods.” He fumbled, hands shaking over the wound. They proceeded to fly to his pocket, where he’d stuffed a handkerchief earlier. He pushed it to the cut and brushed it along the blood, soaking most of it up. Once he finished, he added more pressure, which was enough to stop the bleeding almost entirely, much to his relief. He stood up, dragging Lance with him, and as he did, he caught a view of both the blood on the snow, and on his ice skates. Oh. His skates.

When Lance fell, he’d hit his skates. And he’d hit the blades Keith had previously watched with such diligence to be sure Lance didn’t split his finger. But he hadn’t been watching when Lance fell. He should have been more careful. Now he felt like it was his fault.

“C’mon,” he said, continuing to apply weight to the gash. “Let’s get our shoes and head home.”

“Keith, I’m sorry,” Lance whispered, still crying and still scared by the unknown status of his injury. “I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m sorry.” The knight felt sick at the sound of the apologies. He kept his gaze trained at the snow ahead of them and the pathway to the horse, where their shoes sat. Keith wasn’t letting himself look back at his husband, knowing he’d cry, or get sicker, or pass out, if he saw the wound again. Lance caught onto his lack of desire to face him, and he took the handkerchief from his grip to hold himself. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.  
Upon reaching the horse, Keith started to check the bag for any first aid supplies. He found an old roll of bandages buried at the bottom and fished it out. Pushing Lance back to the ground, he kneeled in front of him again and removed the handkerchief from his face without looking. Eventually, he had to look, though. He lifted his gaze, bothered more by the guilty look on Lance’s face than he was by the remains of blood on his cheeks.

“Lance,” he breathed, starting to wrap bandages around his head. The man began to apologize again and started to cry harder. “Stop, why are you sorry?” Lance was blubbering; he was dragging his wrist along his nose and speaking words that were incoherent. “It’s not your fault, stop apologizing. I should have asked if you were okay; I shouldn’t have laughed at how you fell. I’m sorry, Lance.”

He finished tying the bandages off, and Lance got himself together enough to talk properly. “So you’re not mad at me? Even though I tripped like a dumbass?” Keith was helping him out of his skates first, still too scared to face the blood on his own. He stuffed one of Lance’s boots onto his foot, before looking back up at Lance.

“You got hurt because of _my_ skate, why the hell would I be--” he spotted the shaken expression on Lance’s face and stopped himself. Keith realized his husband had probably thought it was a dangerous injury; that he might have been scared to lose his life after seeing the blood. He didn’t need harsh questions at the moment. “No, I’m not mad. I just saw the blood and I… I thought I was gonna lose you for a second, and I can’t. I can’t lose you.”

Lance sniffed, gripping Keith’s hand and dragging it from his lap. “You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he said, laughing weakly.

Keith felt his own tears, but he laughed. Lance added more to his statement. “For the record, your date plan was perfect, up until the part where I almost died. Thank you.” The knight smiled, a little more at ease with how his husband had liked his idea. It put him at enough ease to change his shoes and get them both home.

On the way back, he’d had Lance sit in front of him on the horse. The tailor faced backwards to rest his cheek against Keith’s shoulder and breathed slowly against his neck. Keith needed that. He found himself needing the steady feeling of his husband’s air. The feeling of his lungs still working. The feeling of him being _alive._ It was all he had to keep him grounded and to keep him from losing his cool entirely, in a tsunami of tears.

The head knight thought a lot about that day a lot. About the millisecond he’d thought he’d lose his husband and the millisecond after, when he’d lost the ability to do anything about it. He was reminded of the helpless tremor to his fingers every time he saw the pale inch of a scar on Lance’s temple. Reminded of the way his hands had been quaking too much to react. It felt very much like he felt now, breath caught in his chest as he saw Lance entirely too far to save.

Lotor had Lance tightly grasped in one arm and Keith had to watch Lance defenseless in his hold. He thought about how Lance had said, “you can’t get rid of me that easy,” and he felt the need to cry. He’d been wrong; Lance had been so wrong. Nothing Keith was doing was working, none of his plans were succeeding, and none of his efforts were being rewarded. Every one of Keith’s advances fell through and after every attempt to get Lance back, he’d found himself even farther from success.

He’d gone after him when he went missing from the castle, and ended up losing him to Haggar. He’d gone after him then, but missed his chance when the queen dragged him into a portal, once again taking his husband even _farther_ from his reach. He’d even gone after Lance then, enlisting the help of a stranger out of desperation, and still his attempts had failed, because here Lance was, in the hold of that very same stranger.

Keith was beyond frustrated. He was beyond concerned and beyond upset. His feelings were bubbling, no, boiling in his stomach. His last drop of patience had long since been evaporated off, but here he was, running on fumes for Lance’s sake. Because he knew that if he didn’t brew some more patience, his husband was going to suffer royally for it. Painfully. _Fatally._ No, losing his composure wasn’t a choice he could afford to make.

“Now,” Lotor said, drawing Keith’s attention and fright towards him. “Let me tell you how this is going to go.” With his free hand, he pulled something out of his pocket and rolled it around in his palm for a second. Then, not looking up from the object in his grasp, he tossed it at the head knight, who caught it, but struggled to keep it within his hold.

Once his grip was solid, he turned it over a few times. The item was, by the looks of it, made of glass and Keith didn’t know much about magic, but he’d developed the ability to identify when it was in use and this object certainly set his senses off. Its surface was shimmering with some kind of enchantment he could see but couldn’t name. He could fit the whole of its cone shape in his hand, as it was only about two inches long, and when he held the point up to his face, he recognized the sharpness of the tip.

The prince cleared his throat to regain Keith’s focus. “You’re going to stab it into your arm.” Keith cringed, gripping the object more tightly in disgust. He had the strong urge to toss the glass to the carpeted floor hard enough to watch it shatter. It sure as hell wasn’t going to touch his bloodstream. He told himself as much, until he noticed the way Lotor shifted Lance in his hold slightly. It forced his mind back to what really mattered: Lance and his safety. “It’ll draw the weapon you’ve been injected with out, and the moment that’s done, you’ll hand that object back to me.” So, he wanted the serum. “Then, I’ll give you back your husband.”

The head knight looked at the cone in his hand, before turning to Shiro. He was probably more level headed right now. Keith was in no mindset to make this decision, so he was looking for his mentor’s input, but the prince didn’t appear too comfortable with waiting. “In fact, I’ll even let all of you leave, no fighting necessary. And that includes the mage in the tower. Seem generous?”

If Lotor was being honest, which there was maybe a fifty percent chance of, then yes, he was being generous. No battles, no casualties, just the loss of an alchemic advancement that Keith didn’t even want to begin with. He’d get his husband back and they could all go home like he’d wished for all along. But the Galra prince’s honesty was a huge _if_ and Keith wasn’t confident he could take him down if he proved untrustworthy again. On any normal day, he had no doubts in his strength, but he didn’t know enough about magic or the serum to know what its removal would do to him; it could render him defenseless, weak, or entirely unable to fight. Unable to protect Lance. That wasn’t even a choice.

Then again, if he didn’t accept Lotor’s proposal, there was no _if_ about it. He’d likely kill Lance then and take the serum himself while Keith was griefstriken. Keith made his decision. A maybe was better than watching Lance die. He gripped the glass tightly in his hold, until the color of his knuckles matched the color of the white reflections on the snowy cone. The knight brought it wordlessly to his arm, trying not to visibly wince at the idea of it puncturing his flesh. It was inches from his skin when he started to feel the pulsating sensation from the enchantment on its surface. The rhythmic swell and ebb on his flesh was calming and gave him enough focus to bring the tip to his arm. Almost.

Right before it touched, Keith heard the whistle of an arrow flying past his ear. It soared over his shoulder and lodged into Lotor’s. Keith had hoped he’d drop Lance, but he didn’t, he merely staggered back a few steps with a snarl curving his lips. The head knight spun his head to look out the broken doorway of the throne room. Standing there, bathed in the fire of the sunset and holding a bow firmly in his hands, was Hunk. And behind him, illuminated in the same collage of oranges, yellows, and reds, was the queen, Pidge, and what had to have been damn close to the entirety of Altea’s army.

And Keith should have been ecstatic. In any other circumstance, he would have been thrilled. But this was not that circumstance. He knew the precarious tightrope he and Shiro were walking. On one side, was getting Lance back, on the other, was pissing Lotor off and losing his chance to strike a deal. With that, there was also the very real possibility of losing his husband, which was getting more real with every passing second. The combination of Allura’s army and Hunk’s arrow pushed them very firmly over one side of that dangerous tightrope. And not in the direction Keith wanted.

The head knight’s attention flew to where the Galra prince stood, eyebrows already coming together, quaking, in a silent plea for this not to go horribly wrong. His throat was already burning as tears climbed the back of it. He was soundlessly begging Lotor. The words of his unspoken prayer were ringing in his head. _Please, not Lance._ Keith was reminded, for what felt like the millionth time today alone, that he couldn’t lose his husband. But it seemed he would have to.

The Galra prince was wearing no expression. He pulled Lance up, holding him by the hood of his tattered cloak and putting him between the approaching army and his own body to halt any possible future attacks. Keith stumbled towards him, hand outstretched and mouth splitting for words he’d yet to think of. Lotor gave no response for a second, instead waving his free hand and opening a portal. Stepping one foot inside, he looked Keith dead in the eye with an emotionless gaze that Keith was certain would be a source of a whole new kind of nightmare. He gave a quick, but meaningful, glance to the brunet in his hold.

Keith took another wary step forward, hands shaking. His sword plummeted to the floor, sound muffled by the carpeting in the room. The muted clash of metal matched the soundless cry that his lungs were releasing. “No,” he managed, still thinking of Lotor’s look towards Lance. The head knight couldn’t say what exactly it had meant, but the venomous glint to his features told him it was nothing good. He couldn’t let Lotor out of his sight. Not until he had Lance again. Not until Lance was _safe._

He didn’t have much of a say in the matter, though.

“Wrong choice, head knight,” Lotor said, swinging his other leg into the portal. The glow of the magic vanished behind him and Keith’s throat went raw. Lance was in the clutches of someone he didn’t know and that someone hadn’t extended an offer before leaving, like Haggar had. He took a few more teetering steps towards the empty carpeting where Lotor had been, knees wobbling more extremely with each inch Keith gained on the spot. He dropped the glass cone to the ground and it spun in a slow circle until it came to a stop. The knight’s heart felt like it had stopped much the same way. His chest was too hot, his lips felt like they were cracking under a sweltering heat he couldn’t pinpoint, his focus was hesitating. _Nothing was clear._

He crumpled to the floor next to the glass cone. His hands went to his cheeks, before sliding down to cover his mouth. Pressing as hard as he could against the humidity of his tearstained breaths, he let his breathing stutter. Ducking his head, he hoped his hands covered the defeated wail that left him.

No, he’d been wrong to think nothing was clear. One thing _was_ clear:

Lance was gone.

And he was in even more danger than he’d been in before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, your princess is in another castle, Keith 
> 
> As always, let me know what you thought!! o3o
> 
> also, if you subscribers get notifications when I edit like a single word or change a tag, I'm so sorry lol


	11. You Are My Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sldfhajfiowelfef I have very little to reveal about this chapter before it starts, but lemme just say? You might cry? My heart hurt writing it jfc. Tell me how many times you cried, down in the comments

There was a hand on Keith’s upper arm. Actually, it had been there for a while. His entire body was shaking and tingling with anxiety, and for the last few minutes, his skin had been too close to numb to feel the hand that had been rested there. He didn’t want to look at the hand’s owner because he didn’t want to lift his gaze from the steadily growing shape of darker carpet. His tears were changing the soft, berry color of the floor into a dark wine shade, every drop of saltwater wetting a new patch of lush carpeting. He was faintly aware of the hand against his arm being removed when someone knelt next to him.

“Keith.” The knight definitely didn’t want to look up now. He knew that voice and he knew his queen was looking at him expectantly and he couldn’t meet her stern gaze with dripping and swollen eyes. What kind of confidence would that inspire in her? He looked to his side, the one Queen Allura wasn’t on, and ignored her utterance of his name, focusing instead on the Galra queen’s fallen body.

She’d yet to stop bleeding. Her face had paled and Keith found himself wondering if the peaceful gleam of white on her features could be attributed to the blood loss, or if it was simply the crescent moon that had begun to shine outside. Without moving his head, he glanced at one of the shattered windows, and past it, to see the night sky. He thought about how that meant he’d been crying all sunset. He looked back to Haggar.

Her crown was glistening the snowy white of the stars and the moon outside, her features were relaxed and painless, and her body was motionless across the floor. She’d landed on her back and the ivory strands of her hair had fanned about her body, so when her spreading pool of crimson touched them, the liquid climbed the locks to turn them rosy. It brought the color she was deficient in back to her form. The pinkness of her cheeks had faded and the way her hair emanated the shade drew out the paleness of her face. But despite the lifeless nature of her eyes and skin, Keith almost envied her serenity and the lack of worry lines between her brows. He wanted to lay down, same as her, and rest.

“Keith,” the queen said again. This time, the knight turned to meet her concerned eyes and pouting lips. The woman winced upon seeing his disheveled state; she hated the red to his eyelids and the flaking trails of dried saltwater on his cheekbones. “Shiro told me what happened,” she began, looking away from the broken gaze she’d called upon. She didn’t want to see it. Allura thought, foolishly, that her head knight would remain as stoic and as unphased as always, and the debunking of her assumption was disquieting. “I’m sorry.”

Keith shook his head, bringing his line of sight back to the darkening of the watery carpet. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but he was left shattered in a way that had him thinking that, _no, it was her fault._ If she hadn’t brought her army when she did, Keith would have struck a deal to get Lance back. He had been millimeters away from the action. Another _second_ and Lance would be in _his_ arms and not those of some dangerous stranger. It was taking an extreme amount of restraint—one that Keith didn’t even know he had—to resist his urge to take out his frustrations on the queen. He wanted to howl at her and to be frustrated with her, but he knew he couldn’t.

And not just because she was his boss. He knew, beneath the layers of suffering and fury atop the surface of his skin, that she was right to do what she’d done. He knew his decision to comply with Lotor’s demands had been careless and would have probably ended in some form of disaster, but he still wanted to blame someone. Until this very moment of wordlessly accusing her, he’d been blaming no one but himself. And the moment his flare of anger subsided, he still was. Could he really pass the blame onto anyone else?

Lance had called out to _him._ He’d been struggling and helpless and his last line of defense had been _Keith_ and he’d reached out for him with no reply. Keith had been frozen and lightheaded when he needed to make a move and to come up with a solution or a loophole. He’d panicked and missed his chance to save his husband, something he continued to criticize himself for, even though there still didn’t seem to be any other paths he could have taken. All he knew was that Lance had been begging him to help, and he’d been the one to let him down by failing to answer his pleas.

Keith couldn’t get the sounds of Lance’s hysterical cries out of his head. The way he’d been able to make out the shudder in his husband’s voice, the tremor of his fear, even through the cloth that had been in his mouth, muffling every utterance of Keith’s name. The way he managed to decipher what word had been spoken, what name Lance had wailed, despite how slurred and close to unintelligible it had been. The way he could still see the horrified eyes of his husband in the puddles he was watching grow on the carpet, regardless of the fact that he hadn’t actually caught so much as a glimpse of them with the way Lotor was holding Lance.

“It’s not your fault, Your Majesty,” Keith muttered, the sound of his voice as something weak and unprofessional. _It’s mine._ He shook his head, dispelling the dangerous thought. The words he’d said to Allura, as shaky as they were, were assuring Keith as much as they were assuring her. He needed to remind himself that Allura wasn’t the enemy, and neither was he. The real problem remained the Galra prince who’d taken Lance and, by blaming themselves, they were giving Lotor an edge they couldn’t afford to give. Every fracture in their teamwork was yet another weakness their enemy could exploit. They had to overcome their flaws before reaching Lance because Keith wasn’t so brash as to risk his husband’s life for a worthless anger.

“I suppose not,” the queen breathed, tossing her legs out in front of herself to sit next to her head knight. “I’m still deeply sorry. Pidge contacted me upon waking up from Lotor’s attack, and she said you might need backup. So, I had troops teleported here, but I didn’t realize that decision would put your husband in danger.” Keith had turned his bloodshot eyes to watch her speak. He could see she was truly sorry, not that it mattered; he’d decided not to blame her regardless, after all. The queen was tightening and loosening her grip on a bunched up bit of her outfit’s fabric in her lap. She looked about ready to cry, same as Keith. Allura needn’t use her words to express her guilt.

Her advisor stepped closer, as well. “Now, now, it doesn’t matter what happened before, our main priority is getting the man back.” Keith met Coran’s confident smile with a tiredly raised eyebrow. “And we have a plan!” _That_ was something the head knight could get behind. He feigned a surge of conviction and, gripping the glass cone Lotor had given him and shoving it into the top of the empty sheath he’d hung on his hip, Keith stood to look assuredly at the army. He locked eyes with a few of the soldiers at the front. If he was going to lead an army with confidence, he knew he had to inspire the same confidence within his troops.

The paleness of his face was mirrored in the moonlit ends of his hair, his expression once again taking the form of a fearless leader. Shadows were drawn across his face so his whole body looked like a charcoal sketch. The white of the moon on his armor, the ebony of his hair. The black of his shadows and his eyes, the milky color of his skin and his teeth. He was the epitome of pride and determination. Needless to say, he’d very easily inspired the confidence he desired within his army. The only inklings of hesitation on his features were the pink remnants around the rims of his eyes, but it was lost to the smoky fire within them.

Keith took steady steps to retrieve his sword. The moment he had it, he moved towards the exit, but Hunk blocked his path. “Stop,” he said. “We have to discuss the plan first.” Keith huffed, wedged his sword into the carpet, and leaned on the hilt. “Now, our first priority is to _find_ Lotor.”

Allura stood up, smoothing the fabric of her dress that she’d been anxiously crumpling between her fingers. The queen approached the group that was forming and stood next to where Pidge had also joined. “I think I can help with that,” she responded, eyes elsewhere as she shifted the crown about her forehead. “We were friends growing up, I remember him talking about some of the places he went when he was avoiding his parents.”

“And you think he’s gone there now,” Coran mused, running a hand along his chin in an exaggerated expression of thought. “Well, we can check there in the morning. We’ll be no good without a night’s rest.” Keith was seconds away from protesting; his own impatience was overtaking any ounce of logic he had. He wanted to get Lance back _now_ and it wasn’t an entirely unreasonable desire. It made sense. Obviously, the less time his husband spent in harm’s way, the less harm he’d be able to suffer, and Keith wanted his husband’s safety far more than he’d ever want sleep. He had enough adrenaline pumping through his boiling blood to carry him through one battle. He could handle a night without sleep.

But as he looked over the faces of his teammates, he saw how tired they all were. Hunk was swaying slowly, eyelids on the cusp of shutting entirely, and his bow had to slip from his hands before he was woken from his quasi-comatose state. Pidge’s hands were twitching, fingers drumming against her thighs as her gaze swept the room in lazy loops. Even Shiro was having trouble masking his exhaustion; he was placing the whole of his weight against the sword he was leaning on and he hadn’t bothered to stretch a polite smile across his lips when Coran was speaking, like he usually did.

Keith clenched his jaw. Maybe he needed to retire. In a repetition of a situation like this, he wasn’t sure he could properly choose between being a responsible leader and a responsible husband. In fact, he was having trouble with it now. He loved his teammates and he didn’t wish them sleep deprivation and the pains that came with it, but at the same time, he loved his husband just as much and his life was in extreme peril every second he was away from Keith. The head knight thought about how useless the army Allura had brought would be if they passed out in battle, and he finally relented. His posture slumped and, though his shoulders were still tense, he decided not to start an argument over Coran’s suggestion.

A few of Altea’s soldiers removed Haggar’s body from the throne room, while everyone else filtered in to settle for the night. Keith didn’t like the swell of people, even though there were less soldiers than he’d previously thought there were; a couple hundred, tops. He was pushing past the wave of them in an attempt to reach an untouched corner of the room, so he could have his own space for the night. Keith would even resign himself to a space outside, if it ascertained his isolation while he slept. He brushed past another knight, the shoulder of his armor clashing with theirs, but neither apologized.

“Hey, Keith,” the knight said. Keith turned to face the man, expression passive and sight still turned elsewhere. “I’m really sorry to hear about your husband.” The phrase was bitter, laced with a cruel type of sarcasm that had the head knight shooting a glare at the source and clenching his sword more tightly. When he locked eyes with the ally, he scoffed and spun on his heel, back to forcefully breaking through the walls of incoming soldiers. “No, really. It’s a shame. You must feel terrible.” The knight’s voice was still leaking venom and insincerity.

“Fuck off,” Keith hissed, barely sparing so much as a glance over his shoulder at the man. “I’m clearly not in the mood for your stupidity right now.” His ally didn’t relent, however, and Keith could feel him riding his heels and following his every move with the obvious intent to annoy him. He saw a hand reaching for his own before it touched him and he yanked his wrist out of the other knight’s line of attack. He spun around again, fist raised, and only the sight of the queen behind his ally made him drop the swing. But he did clench his sword until he swore his fingers would be bruised.

“Keith, really!” The head knight met the smoldering, mocking smirk with a grimace of his own. “It must be horrible to know it’s your fault.” At that, Keith had suffered through enough. He kicked his ally’s ankle, which sent the entirety of the man's weight forward, and when his forehead thudded dully against the carpeting, Keith knelt in front of him. His hand still rested at the very end of his sword and it held very little of his body as he squatted, but it did make for quite the menacing picture. The head knight snarled.

“Listen, Griffin.” The man forced himself into a squat to match Keith’s, his hands cradling a bloody nose. “I put up with your shit on a daily basis, and _usually_ I have a husband to look out for, so I try not to get into fights. I hate worrying him. But right now, I’ve got a fuckton of pent up aggression and no husband to stop me.” Griffin clambered to a standing position, fingers still clutching his face. He didn’t say anything else, he simply stomped away and Keith didn’t see him for the rest of the evening, much to his satisfaction.

His words still got to the head knight, though. It felt like they sank into the flesh at the back of his neck. They made his skin crawl and itch. He’d passed the blame onto Lotor, but when he considered the circumstances, he still felt as though it was largely his fault. It crowded his mind, filling his brain with noise, even after the rest of the throne room had quieted and gone to sleep. Sleep avoided him as he struggled to get it out of his head, without success. He was the only one who’d married Lance. He was the only one who’d recited vows of promises to keep him safe and to always be by his side. He was the only one who’d broken both of those promises.

No amount of distance between himself and the rest of the army gave him any comfort, either. He’d tried staying far from people and close to the broken entry of the throne room, like he’d initially intended, but the chilly feeling of the night air made him feel too lonely. It made him miss his husband; he longed for his warm nature and touch. He decided he couldn’t handle the cold tonight, and he reluctantly inched closer to the heat of the crowd. Keith still felt ill.

It was a homesick kind of ill. An intense pining for something he used to have that was out of reach; it made his heart ache. He could feel tangible, physical pain that settled deep into his stomach and hollowed his chest. He felt a homesick kind of ill because the more he thought about Lance, the more he realized he truly _was_ without his home. Not the place, not the bed, not the heat of his blankets. He was without his _real_ home. The person, the smile, the heat of his hands about Keith’s back.

The head knight was lying with his spine to the carpet, staring at the lines of moonlight on the arched ceilings of the throne room. They spiked and wavered, crooked because of the sharp ridges of the splintered wood in the broken door. He traced them back to their source, looking out to the twinkling stars instead of their dull shine across the stone roof. He thought of the way Lance’s eyes would shimmer when he smiled, when he was brought to such unfathomable joy that tears would pool and shimmer on the surface of his blue orbs; the same shade of blue as the new, abnormal light reflecting off of the small sliver of castle ceiling still within Keith’s line of vision. Sitting up, he tracked it back to where it poured from.

Outside the cracked doorway, there was a glimmering figure, face glowing too brightly to identify. Keith stood warily up and approached it, sword drawn and nimble feet stepping over the arms and legs strewn about the room. He made it to the doorway without breaking any of his ally’s fingers or toes, but by the time he lifted his head from his watch of the floor to where the figure had been, there was no one and no glow to be found. The knight craned his neck, swinging it around the opening in hopes of spotting where the person had retreated to, and he saw them. He gave chase, footsteps silenced but hasty.

The figure waited for a moment, before floating back out of the reach of Keith’s fingertips. It led him around the side of the castle, its pursuer’s steps getting sloppier and louder the farther from the entrance they got. Keith kept stretching his hands; he was trying to grip the fluttering cloak of the _thing_ he was chasing, but each time, it would speed up and twirl out of his reach. All Keith would get was the buzzing feel of magic in his fingertips, before the replica clothing would be torn from his grasp. Until the one time it didn’t.

Both he and the figure had come to stop under a withering tree, the head knight finally able to make out the figure’s face. Now that he got a good look at the thing, it had no face, just the shallow indentations of eyes and the ridge of a nose. It gave a girlish giggle, before its form shifted into one he knew: Lotor.

He gave an immediate slash of his sword through the hologram’s waist, watching the outline shudder, but ultimately resume its shape. The knight released a disgruntled noise, a blend of fury and desperation, and prepared another strike. Before it could land, though, another figure appeared next to the Galra prince, and he withdrew his attack in an instant.

“Lance,” he breathed, his sword clattering against the ruined pieces of bricks scattered amongst the grass. His hands leapt out, tentatively gripping the sides of his husband’s, or what appeared to be his husband’s, face. He felt only the vibrations of magic that he was quickly becoming acquainted with. Keith couldn’t keep up; he couldn’t understand if the vision of his husband was really Lance or not. On the off chance that it was, and that the man could see and feel his hands, he kept them planted along the brunet’s jaw, rubbing his thumbs gently against Lance’s cheekbones. Beneath his palms, he could feel the unnatural bulge of the cloth tied about his husband’s head and stuffed into his mouth.

The man under his hands shut his eyes, tears dripping from his eyelashes. His lips quivered, even around the gag in his mouth, and there was an almost imperceptible tremor rising the brunet’s spine. Keith felt it, identified it as a sign of fear, and instantly knew this figure was the real, terrified Lance. He shot a vicious glare back at Lotor, voicelessly pressuring for his reasoning. Why had he drawn Keith away from the army? Why had he shown him Lance? What was he planning to do?

Lotor started an answer.

“Weapon,” he said, tone disinterested yet remaining intimidating. “I have no quarrel with you and I have no desire to keep your husband.” Keith felt his heart jump to his throat and he tightened his grip on Lance’s face. He didn’t know if the Galra prince was implying that he wanted to give the brunet back or simply planned to kill him, and he was hoping so firmly for the former, he could feel the stress burning in every one of his muscles. Keith had the vague thought that maybe, if he gripped Lance solidly enough, believed with steady palms that it would be so, he’d find his husband truly in his arms; that he’d feel warmth of flesh and blood, instead of the cold oscillation of spells. Lotor released a tired sigh at the frantic look spinning in Keith’s darting eyes. “So, my offer still stands.”

The head knight’s jaw fell. He’d fully expected Lotor to yank his offer back and leave Keith panicking over the wellbeing of his husband even longer, but here he was, making it clear that he intended to continue his plan. Keith’s face had melted into something soft and a flicker of compassion shone in Lotor’s eye, a millisecond of pure, strong _humanity,_ before he grimaced and brought his expression back to a stern scowl. “But my army,” Keith stuttered, desperate to warn Lotor of the threat, so that when he found out on his own, he wouldn’t take his offer away again. So he wouldn’t take some form of vengeance on Lance.  
“I know full well your army is hunting me down. I do not object to that. Tell me, do you still have the glass?” Keith peeled his hands back from Lance’s face, tugging like he was drawing two oppositely charged magnets apart. His fingers fell to where he’d stuffed the object before, movements slow and like half-frozen liquid. His hands were like molasses dripping into the sheath along his hip. He pulled the glass out, holding it so both he and Lotor could see. “Good. It’s enchanted by my mother, it’s the strongest magic out there; there’s nothing like it and it can’t be replicated. You cannot lose it.” Keith nodded, suddenly compliant with the man he’d been ready to kill only a minute prior. He supposed Lance did that to him. He’d do anything to keep him safe.

Keith voiced a dangerous request. “Could I,” he gulped and ended his question prematurely. “Could I speak with Lance alone?” At the irked twitch of the prince’s eyebrow, he was flung into his desperate antics with a tizzy. “Please, just a minute--” Lotor’s eyes flickered with an ounce of humanity again, and he nodded. Keith watched with a feathery pulse as the prince pulled Lance’s gag from his mouth and proceeded to vanish from under the withering tree. Keith had no doubt he remained in the room on Lance’s end of the connection, though.

“Keith,” Lance muttered, voice raw and words slurred around the newfound space in his mouth. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” He started to cry, unable to wipe his tears while his hands remained wrapped and bound behind his spine. Keith’s hands flew back to his face, trying uselessly to wipe them himself. The droplets of water fizzed beneath his fingertips and tickled his skin, but he could do nothing to dry them through a hologram alone. “I’m awful, I’m so sorry.” The head knight had thought speaking with his husband would ease his homesickness, but Lance’s apologies were only causing more painful bubbling in his chest.

“Stop, please. Lance, _please,_ none of this is your fault,” he whispered, bringing his forehead to meet Lance’s. The brunet shook his head.

“No, no, I shouldn’t have,” he choked on his words, fear seeping from his lungs with every hiccup he released. “I should have told you! I’m so sorry, you probably hate me, don’t you? I never told you I could do magic and I should have and I’m completely awful--”

“Lance!” The brunet hiccuped, but stopped speaking. “Lance, none of that matters. I don’t care, I just want you home safe. Then we can talk about all the witch stuff, okay?” His husband began to form some sort of excuse, some kind of exception to Keith’s affection and forgiveness. Keith wasn’t having it. “Make it up to me by hanging in there.”

Lance’s eyes shot down. A gulp slid down the length of his neck. “Are you going to turn me in?” He winced when Keith started to rub his cheeks with his thumbs again. It made the knight hurt an inconsolable amount to know his husband had been visibly, palpably scared by the affectionate motion. That he’d shivered back, even for just a moment. He was tracing over the swollen lines where the gag had been wrapped, trying to ignore the way the marks made his heart ache just as much as the fear he’d seen and felt in his husband.

“Dumbass,” he breathed. “You think I’d come chasing after you, just to turn you in, just so you could get executed?” The brunet sniffed loudly and his eyes finally crawled upwards to meet Keith’s. An impression of a smile traced his lips. The head knight returned it. “You’re always my top priority. We’ll make sure you don’t get arrested. I’ll make sure.” Lance finally leaned into Keith’s touch on his cheeks. The knight only noticed his own tears when he grinned more at Lance’s motion and absentmindedly licked the salt from his lips. He started to say what he needed to say. “I love you.”

Lance choked, scrunching his face in what was undoubtedly an attempt to stop the downfall of more tears. It was unsuccessful and he bawled, “I love you, too.” Keith’s heart felt a little lighter in his chest. They were okay. Together, they were okay. On their own, Lance was experiencing hell and Keith was going through hell watching it, but as husbands, they were okay. That was a victory Keith could sleep easier realizing. It was the only victory he had that evening, though.

The Galra prince’s figure appeared next to Lance’s again. Keith was about to resist when Lotor began to gag his husband, but Lance got one look at the knight’s blazing expression, and he shook his head. The cloth was reattached without a single motion of resistance. “When you and your army get here,” Lotor muttered while tying the cloth about the back of Lance’s head. “You’re going to do what I told you to do before. All I want is the serum. You can all leave after I have that.”

Keith nodded in understanding, focus elsewhere as he draped his hands back across Lance’s face. He bent wordlessly forward to press a tender kiss to his husband’s nose. The knight knew Lance could feel it, too, and he hoped it provided the comfort he’d intended. “I love you, Lance. You’re going to be okay.” The brunet gave some form of muffled reciprocation of the first statement, and thus ended Keith’s brief communication with Lotor and his husband. They both vanished, shards of their glimmering figures rising to the sky like teal ashes.

There was some guilt behind his words of reassurance. Did he know if Lance would be okay? No. Did he know if he was going to get Lance back? No. Did he know if he could trust Lotor to keep up his end of the deal? Definitely not. But his words weren’t meant to be entirely honest, they were meant as a comfort. Because all Keith could ever know was that he was going to do his utmost. He was going to give every ounce of his strength and effort to get his husband back. He was going to fight tooth and nail to keep Lance safe for as long as they were both alive. That was all he’d ever known. That, and that Lance would always do the same for him.

Keith stumbled back to the throne room through the darkness. It was a cold and lonely trek back, the smoking embers of homesickness had settled once again within his stomach. His nerves had returned and he knew he’d spend yet another night in bouts of restless sleep. As he cozied himself back into his spot at the fringes of the dogpile in the castle, he wondered if he’d have nightmares again. He drifted off and would forever be _unhappy_ to report that he hadn’t had a nightmare. He’d dreamt a dream that had always been his favorite. He’d dreamt about when he and Lance first met.

Keith had been seventeen, Lance had been sixteen. He’d yet to become a knight, since Iago’s reign was still hanging over the kingdom of Altea like a dreadful mist, and he refused to be a part of a government like that. Not to mention, he hadn’t turned the necessary age of eighteen. Regardless of whether he was officially employed or not, though, Shiro insisted upon bringing him on missions around Castle Town, to teach him how the job worked. Most of those missions around the capitol consisted solely of finding and capturing witches to turn in, since the newly passed anti-magic law was the corrupt king’s main focus.

On the day Keith and his husband had met, it was pouring and grey, the kind of weather Shiro had refused to let Keith wear armor in, lest the metal rust. Lance would always speak of the weather fondly, saying it reminded him of Keith. He’d go on for hours about how the clouds were dark, gloomy, and brooding; exactly like his beloved husband, Keith. He’d say it was the perfect day to have met him, since it suited him so very well. Lance said it while they dated and it hadn’t stopped after they’d gotten married; he brought it up every time it rained. His husband had mentioned it so much that Keith had begun to think similarly.

When the clouds opened and dripped their fresh, icy tears, he found himself thinking of Lance. He’d think of the blue of Lance’s eyes, imagining that color behind the twisted bunches of rain clouds, instead of the cerulean color that actually hid behind the grey. He’d see Lance’s slender waist and soft hands as shapes in the gentle curls of the clouds. He’d feel Lance’s kisses across his nose when the raindrops landed there. Yes, Keith had begun to speak fondly of the rain, too.

He’d yet to feel that fondness during the day in question, though, as he’d yet to meet the man that inspired it.

Shiro had dragged Keith out of bed that morning, stuffing an umbrella into his hands and yanking him away from any chance to shower or fix his hair. Not that the boy had cared. He hadn’t _intended_ to meet the love of his life that morning, after all. Besides, he’d showered the night before, so it wasn’t like his bed head smelled bad. His mentor had been muttering about their mission for the day while Keith fiddled with his oddly protruding bangs. He barely got the knight to agree to let him get dressed before being forced onto some mission he hadn’t listened to.

“We’ve gotten word of a shop housing illegal witches,” Shiro muttered. He opened his umbrella, Keith following suit, and the two stepped out from the overhang around the soldier barracks. The younger of the two watched his reflection in each puddle he dodged. He still wasn’t listening. The boy was dragging his feet, skirting around each collection of water as an excuse to delay his training for the day. Had he known it was Lance he was avoiding, he probably wouldn’t have spent so long observing the ripples in the puddles at the intersection Shiro was trying to drag him across.

People were flitting about, in a hurry to find shelter from the downpour and failing to remember the common courtesies of the street. Keith was no kinder, brushing shoulders with strangers without so much as a mumbled apology. He’d been somewhere between sleep and consciousness, eyes draping across the entirety of the horizon without focus, and feet scuffling along the cobblestone roads. Shiro opened the door to the shop they’d been searching for. Keith heard the bells fluttering as freely as his thoughts had been, and both the head knight and his understudy shook their umbrellas out at the doorway. Only after looking into the warmly lit room, did his senses return and wake him completely.

But Keith still stumbled over his feet.

If Shiro had wanted to get him to cooperate this early in the morning, he should have _started_ with just how damn _cute_ the store owner was. Keith would have leapt out of bed. The boy behind the counter had a piece of fabric in his hands and a cute furrow to his brows, seemingly pouting in concentration with a few pins in his mouth and a project under construction. He hadn’t appeared to have heard the bells, which Keith was too smitten to care for, and he only looked up when Shiro took heavy steps towards the counter.

The brunet looked up from his work and his brows quickly resumed a more pleasant tilt, while his eyes crinkled around the edges. He turned his smile from Shiro to Keith, hastily putting his supplies down and removing the pin from his lips. “How can I serve you?” Keith gulped at the question. The shopkeeper had looked right at him as he spoke, and it was such an odd way of asking such a normal, wholesome inquiry. It put far too many unsavory images in the boy’s head. Serve? Could he have made an innocent question sound _any_ dirtier? Or maybe Keith’s mind had simply been in the gutter already.

The boy was certain his pale cheeks had gone a completely different shade, and he chanced a look away from the shopkeeper's eyes. They drifted downward briefly, _so briefly,_ to the smooth, silky flesh of his exposed collarbones, but even the fractured second he let them linger was enough to have him incapable of speech. He’d always considered himself above petty feelings of affection, but the way he was thinking of those patches of his skin told him something wholly different. He wanted, craved, _needed,_ to run his tongue along the expanse of that neck; he desired with such fervor to sink his teeth in and latch his lips there until it went from buttery smooth to bruised and marked with affection. Until that cute shopkeeper made even cuter sounds--

Keith hastily shut his mind down, cursing his own inability to focus. He ducked his scarlet cheeks into the curve of his elbow, hiding his embarrassment with an obviously fake cough. He’d gotten enough of a look at his mentor to know the man was giving him a smug and knowing look. The boy knew he’d be getting teased later. The head knight drew the brunet’s attention back to him. “You’re Lance, correct?” The boy nodded, hair flopping slightly at the motion, as it had been a little shaggier as a teen, than Lance kept it as an adult. Keith found his focus drifting to the thought of whether or not the curls would be soft under his palms. If he leaned just a little bit forward, he could taste the scent of peaches wafting from Lance’s scalp. Suddenly, the mediocre smell of Keith’s unwashed hair had him feeling self conscious.

Shiro looked to Keith, as though asking the trainee if he wanted to redeem his sad display of inarticulate stuttering by explaining the situation to Lance. He gulped, but accepted the unspoken offer. “We’re here to check your store for,” Keith’s voice wavered at the attentiveness in Lance’s eyes, “contraband.” The brunet looked frantic for a split second, but he quickly curved the “o” of his lips into another easygoing smile.

“By all means,” he said, leaning back so his posture spoke more relaxation than his shaken gaze. “Let me know if you need anything!” Shiro nodded, beginning his search of the shop. “Oh, and I live next door, so I can unlock that door, too.” Keith felt a little at ease with how friendly Lance was being; surely if he was cooperating this freely, it meant there was no need to worry over the implausible idea that he was housing witches.

The front room was cleared quickly. Only a few shifts of fabrics and tools before Shiro deemed it empty. When they passed the counter to enter a back room, Lance had returned to working on the cloth in his hands, and Keith slowed his pace to watch for a moment. He only got to see the nervous shaking of the brunet’s fingers and the way he pricked the tip of one with his needle, before Keith had to catch up with Shiro.

In the back room, they found an entrance to the basement, and upon climbing down the stairs, they found what Keith had previously thought was so implausible for them to find. A collection of three witches, all crowded and silent, sat along the stone flooring. From the dim lighting of candles on the wall, Keith could see the chubby curves to their youthful cheeks and the wide fear in their darting eyes. Shiro turned on his heel, quick to rush back up the staircase, but Keith was slower, calling out after him. “Shiro, wait!” It was too late, though, the knight had flung the door open and stormed back into the front room. Keith followed with uneven footsteps. “Wait!”

When he all but fell into the ground level room, he could feel the tension in the air. He was typically one of the most socially unaware people in the world, but the unspoken argument in the room was so thick he felt like he was suffocating. It was impossible to miss it, with the way Lance drummed his pricked fingers against the wooden countertop, painfully unaware of the droplets of his own blood he was smearing along the surface. “Please,” he whispered, gaze drifting upwards to meet Shiro’s through saddened brows and low lashes. “Please, they’re--”

The knight took an echoing step forward, fingers inching towards his blade. “Wanted criminals,” he finished, his unashamed and unwavering stare meeting Lance’s compliant one.

“Gods, they’re children! For the love of-- they’re all _twelve year olds!_ Are you really going to send them to be executed?” Shiro gained a conflicted look, but his stance remained unchanged; he still fully intended to turn them in, Keith could tell. “Are you some monster? Have you got a conscience behind that blade?!” The head knight seemed taken aback by the unadulterated animosity in Lance’s words. His stance finally gave way a bit, in the form of slumping shoulders.

“Shiro,” Keith said, taking a step towards his mentor. “He’s right. It’s not like they could be certified at their age, anyway. This is _wrong_.”

“That’s not for us to decide, Keith--”

“But we do get to decide whether or not we turn them in.” Shiro had yet to be fully convinced, so he pulled a low blow. “C’mon, I was part of the Galra army and you didn’t kill me! Extend the same right to someone else.” The head knight flinched and removed his hand from his blade.

His footsteps were quiet as he headed to the door, as were the hushed words he spoke to Lance. “Don’t let anyone else spot them.” And then he’d scurried outside, barely registering his umbrella by the door as he opened it. Scooping both his and Keith’s accessories into his hands, he tossed one at his understudy, then he scrambled into the rain, anxiety scrawled on each of his irrefutably growing wrinkles. Lance shouted a word of thanks after him, the sound unlikely to have slipped through the quickly shutting door of his shop.

Keith didn’t spend long admiring the grateful smile along the brunet’s lips, even though he’d wanted to do nothing more than observe it in _great_ detail. Close, intimate detail. He silently followed the head knight, instead, ignoring the way he could hear needles and pins chink as they hit the floor upon his turn. He couldn’t ignore the thud that followed, though, and he spun back to see Lance spread across the floor with his hand gripping the counter in a vain attempt to get back up. The boy laughed at Lance’s ungraceful move, then offered him a hand.

“Sorry, that was meant to be a lot more suave,” the brunet said, weakly gripping the assistance. Keith held onto his hand, far more firmly than Lance had touched his, and easily pulled him upwards and into his chest. And, oh, _Gods,_ he could definitely get used to that. Lance had released a choked breath when he thumped into Keith, the air brushing past the reddening tips of Keith’s ears, and the taller of the two was completely down with feeling that again. He wanted to chase after more of the feeling. But he stumbled backwards and reclaimed his hand instead. He directed himself back to the door. “Wait, wait!” Keith was happy to comply.

Lance jogged around him, slid himself between the door and the trainee, and placed a hand on Keith’s cheek. He stood on his toes to press a kiss to the opposite cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered, eyes a watery, frightened kind of grateful. “You saved their lives, I owe you one.” He slipped back to the balls of his feet and rubbed the nape of his neck. His ears were suddenly as red as Keith’s. “If a handsome knight like you ever finds himself in need of a suit, I’ll hook you up for free.”

Keith felt his heart stop at the word handsome and he barely managed to squeeze out, “I’m not a knight, actually.” The tailor in front of him tilted his head. It was unbearably adorable to watch, an innocent, puppylike movement that filled him with the urge to run his hands through Lance’s hair. The image of that was just as pleasant as the soft countenance he was staring at so unashamedly; sweet smile and dozing eyes, curved in the direction of his gentle hand. He was itching to do it, to finally solve the mystery of whether or not his chestnut locks were as soft as they looked. He gulped. “I’m only seventeen.”

The brunet grinned and leaned closer. “Oh, my bad. I’d assumed that since you just acted as my knight in shining armor, you’d be a real knight, too.” Keith turned into a puddle of melted butter at that, but he pulled himself together; there was no way he was allowing himself to fall for this guy before he knew him. Sure, he was charming and cute, but he could be an asshole under all of that. It only took Keith a few months of knowing him to learn that wasn’t the case, and he had no quarrels with falling for him after learning as much. “But, in all seriousness, lemme know how I can pay you back.”

“A raisin,” Keith proclaimed, not an ounce of hesitation where there should have been. He watched Lance wrap his lips around the word in a silent echo. His eyebrows drooped closer together in confusion. He repeated the word aloud, once again tilting his head. “No, no, wait, I meant a date. I’m asking you on a date. I just got caught up on the other kind of date and I--” He was cut short by Lance’s laugh and, _Gods,_ it was so cute. Still not as cute as the way he folded over himself in the giggling motion, gripping Keith’s shoulder for some semblance of stability. Keith wavered and got hot under the touch and his hand flew instinctually to keep the brunet upright, a ginger caress of the man’s waist.

“No way!” Keith’s heart dropped and he felt sweltering embarrassment across his cheeks. Something climbed his throat and he swallowed it down, air catching on it as he sucked in useless breaths. “I mean, a date with a guy like you, all strong and handsome? That’s not paying you back at all! You’d be doing me another favor.” The lump in Keith’s windpipe faded into a dull ache. He was dazed and he snatched Lance’s upper arm to steady himself. So it hadn’t been a rejection? The world was spinning and he let his hair fall into his eyes. Nimble fingers reached up and pulled it back, so he caught a glimpse of shining, blue eyes; the only part of the room that had stopped spinning. Lance’s lips stopped rotating around him, too, when he spoke again. “But if that’s what you want, absolutely.”

And that was when the world faded to a sickening black.

Keith woke up with rain. The skies hadn’t changed, the moon was still uncovered by clouds, but his eyes were leaking raindrops. He smothered a shaky breath with his hand, unwilling to let his army hear his weakness. His world was still spinning, but not as pleasantly as it had been in the dream. No, on second thought, it wasn’t spinning; it was _shaken._ Shaken, so all the shelves of his mind were upturned, strewing both the happy and heartbroken memories across the same pieces of mindscape and blurring them all into something miserable. Shaken, so all the serenity he’d found when he’d struck a deal with Lotor was tossed to the wind and he was left with an infallible sense of hopelessness. Shaken, so Keith firmly decided that, despite the way his husband had taught him to adore the rain and all its memories of Lance, this was one storm he wasn’t fond of.

He wanted it to end.

He wanted the sunshine back.

He wanted _his_ sunshine back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN *off key kazoos*
> 
> I struggled with this chapter's flashback, cuz I was constantly between "they shouldn't be into each other so quickly" and "PINING HUSBANDS"  
> Like, I dislike the idea of love at first sight, but I mean? They're cute dudes, obv they're each gonna think the other is hot
> 
> And I've decided I'm gonna do a sequel, so if there are any parts of Lance's & Keith's pasts that you wanna see a flashback or something about, comment below! I have a couple things planned, but if your idea is really good, you might see it in there, too o3o


	12. Endgame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaAAAAAA

The head knight had told himself that he’d be able to handle another battle without sleep, but after a long night of suffocating, restless, tossed, and turned consciousness, he was no longer sure. His whole body felt tied down by a lack of motivation, held back by the murky waters of sadness. Every breath had his lungs failing more, had his motivation to stand up slipping further away. It was so far gone that he’d lost the intention to chase after it. His hair was lying around his shoulders, spread about as though he really was underwater, drowning in more than just the stifling sorrow.

His army was starting to wake up and chatter, unaffected by the watery grave Keith was feeling so strongly. It was undoubtedly obvious to them that he’d spent the majority of the night awake and crying, but he tried to ignore the overwhelming burn of everyone’s eyes on him. He pretended to be asleep, tiredly yanking his forearm over his face and savoring the chill of the armor against his swollen eyelids. Keith had spent hours rubbing at them, until they had gotten thick, puffy, and scarlet.

He was embarrassed, to say the least. The sun had come up and it had likely illuminated every stained inch of his cheeks and every swollen patch of his lips, where he’d gnawed to keep his sobs silent. An entire army was counting on him to lead; hundreds of people were looking to _him_ for advice and strategies. And yet here Keith was, hiding in plain sight, buried beneath his own armored wrist, and feeling utterly miserable, as though he was trapped under feet upon feet of liquid misery.

Keith hated having to wake up alone. Maybe under less dire circumstances, he would have managed alright, but he was under the most stress he’d ever had to endure. He was battling a constant stream of tears and it was, quite frankly, the one time he truly, completely, _needed_ Lance.

His presence had become a staple in Keith’s life and his smile was always a buoy in the same kind of despair he was currently swimming through. Lance was the one person he could always count on to be there when he needed someone, and he was reaching for someone now, but Lance wasn’t there, and it only plunged him deeper into the misery of being without his husband. It was an endless cycle. He’d be heartbroken over missing Lance, then he’d be heartbroken because Lance wasn’t there to cheer him up as usual, which would remind him of the former, and he’d be stuck getting more and more upset. It was a spiral he’d gone down last night, and a spiral he found himself tumbling down now.

He rubbed a thoughtless thumb over the ring on his left hand, spinning the band of metal about his finger in hopes of stopping his descent. He knew that, when he lifted his arm from his face, he would be without what he needed; he’d be without Lance. But he thought that if he could just lay there, touching the _symbol_ of what he needed, who he needed, it would be enough to get by. That the ring would be tangible enough to provide comfort. Momentarily, it did. He thought of when he'd married Lance, how he loved Lance, and how he was always given the same endless affection in return. The sunlight shone through the murky waves above him. As he uncovered his eyes and greeted the glowing gold of the sun, though, he found the emptiness and darkness returning. The sun was the light he had to share. The light of everyone’s lives. He wanted his own light back; the brilliance of his husband and all of his love. The memories of what he couldn’t have were aching.

They shot icy regret through his veins; an injection of fear entering right between his shoulder blades and dripping down his spine, until the whole of his back felt exposed and frigid inside his armor. His body heat had collected inside the shell of the metal, warming the space so it felt like the inside of a thermos, but now that he was imagining Lance, the heat felt almost inauthentic. Loneliness was dragging its frosty fingers along his chest and the glacier spiked up his neck. Keith clenched his fists when the ice melted and turned to boiling, scalding water. It began to pool around his eyes and he was left battling his useless tears all over again. The liquid flooded his heart, drowning it, so every beat of the muscle started waves that splashed throughout his entire body and made him think of Lance. The tsunamis had him tasting his remorse for having lost him.

Guilt formed a puddle in his thighs when he sat up, hot and sticky and drenched with regret. He felt like an empty water canteen that had been forced full of something thicker than its intended water; his muscles felt stuffed and seemed almost too stiff to move. When he stood, the motion was heavy and thick and rubbery, but simultaneously had him thinking that if he had fallen back to the ground, he would have shattered on impact. As though he were fragile, brittle clay that had dried out when Lance was captured. All of the sensations were too hard to completely wrap his head around, too complicated and unfathomable to explain away, but he _was_ capable of understanding exactly how little he liked it. How little he liked the suffocating embrace of remorse. How little he liked being without Lance.

He began to cross the throne room to where the rest of his team was meeting. As he passed groups of chatting soldiers, they quieted and gave him pitying smiles, with upturned eyebrows and unnaturally taught lips. The sight made the liquid fire in his muscles worse. What he wouldn’t give for Lance right now. Just to have him flash the same smile he always gave Keith, if for no other purpose than to see the normalcy of it. So he could have one person treat him like a human being, rather than merely the grieving widow that he had most certainly not yet become. And the grieving widow he most certainly didn’t plan on becoming any time soon.

The softness of his husband’s eyes would have been appreciated, too. The way he wore his affection so openly on his face, so clearly that even the unobservant Keith could read it in his eyes. Keith wanted to read that here, in the throne room. He just wanted to stare at that tender gaze, wordlessly, until it filled his chest like a lukewarm glass of cider, bubbling and tickling his insides with affection of his own. With an adoration he hoped he wore just as openly on his features as Lance did on his.

Keith made it to the group of leaders, seeing the same compassionate gingerness in their brows as he’d seen in the brows of the rest of the army. He began to avoid their pitying eyes that remained so unlike the blue ones he yearned to see, looking instead at his unsheathed blade. Keith had yet to shove it back into its casing because he was unwilling to remove and reveal the glass cone he’d hidden inside. The sacrifice of the serum wasn’t something anyone else could know about, not if he wanted to be able to do it unhindered. The team would most certainly advise against it, so withholding the information from them was a sacrifice of coherency he was willing to make, as long as it meant he got Lance back.

The head knight cleared the anxious frost from his throat, coughing in a way that made the tears still lodged within bubble. “So, what’s the plan?” He could piece together some of the strategy by looking around the circle of his friends.

Allura had retrieved her rapier from somewhere, freshly polished and sharpened, and she spun it casually about her wrist. The popping of the joint told Keith she was warming up, preparing to participate in the battling as much as anyone else in that throne room. Pidge was warming up as well, sparking small spells along her arms and hands. She looked close to panicked, understandably. Her portal would have to teleport a whole army, after all, and the entire advance of their plan hinged on her ability to successfully get everyone to where Lotor was. The rest of the crew looked equally tense, though their nervous tics didn’t tell Keith as much about the plan.

“We round up our troops and teleport to Lotor,” Allura stated, not removing her gaze from the sheen of her expensive blade. “Our best guess at where he might be is in his lab.” Keith cringed. Something about him having a lab made him sound so much more dastardly than he had before. “Which is a little bit farther into the mountain range this castle is on.” The head knight nodded swiftly, then turned from his private circle in the corner to command his troops, only to see that the rest of his army had been listening to Allura as well. At least that meant he didn’t have to give any orders.

Pidge read the motion as the cue for the start of the mission and began to work up a spell large enough to hold a portal open for an extended period of time. The actual magic for the teleportation would come from each individual soldier, but the process of keeping the portal running had its own draining effects. Keith was the first to pass through the spell and his knees wavered under the strain of using his untrained magic potential. Magic was a sort of muscle and he’d gone his whole life using it a minimal amount, so it was underdeveloped. He fleetingly wondered if he should stop nagging Lance about working out, since clearly he had muscles Keith did not.

The head knight looked down at his palms and smiled. He’d always known his husband was talented—he was a tailor, he was a fair bit of smart, despite what he’d have you believe, and he seemed to have a knack for just about every hobby he picked up—but Keith was always happy to hear the man had yet another unknown skill. He felt so very lucky to have a husband so successful and gifted, even though some of his skills happened to be dabbled in criminality. Everything seemed another excuse to be proud of his husband. His love for Lance truly was damn close to unconditional.

He looked through the fingers of the hands he’d been observing mindlessly and down to the ragged flooring beneath his boots. His fingertips faded out of focus and the crumbling rock of the cave floor became the center of his line of vision. Glancing up at the walls around him, he could spot various doorways carved into the inside of this mountain, most a far distance away, since the vastness of the room he was currently in was impressive. He moved away from the portal and the flood of soldiers passing through, his hand tracing the rocks of the wall as he went. He’d made his way to the source of light in the room, a ball of teal hung low on the wall. It made the whole cave system the same color, including the pool of water against one of the walls. Had it not been for the timing, Keith might have found the space attractive. As he touched the light, he recognized its tingling as one of magic, and he instantly knew Lotor had to be here, like Allura had predicted. The fizz between his fingertips was the same here as it had been when he cradled the face of his husband’s hologram; a discernibly uncomfortable trace of magic that left him feeling much colder than Lance’s healing had.

The whole cave system reeked of magic. A suffocating stench of something that wasn’t exactly the _right_ kind of magic. It had the same feeling as something breathing down your neck, or the kind of dull awareness that floods your skin when someone is close in the dark. The best way to describe it would be ominous or threatening, but neither of those words really began to cover the way the lingering scent and feel of magic affected Keith. It made his hairs stand up like he’d been smothered with a cold blanket or he’d sat upon the cushion of his couch that was rarely used or warmed. Like he’d stumbled into a graveyard at midnight, rather than into a laboratory in the early morning. Something in the air here simply felt wrong and tasted deadly.

It could have been due to the way his senses were picking up on an immense amount of danger, but whether that was the case or not, anxiety and blood were thrumming in tandem throughout Keith’s head. He couldn’t shake the echoing reminder in his skull that it was now or never; that this was his last chance to get Lance back. All they had to do was find Lotor in the mazes of these caves, and they could get to fulfilling the deal. The deal also meant he had to isolate himself from the team, though, and they’d just come through the portal. He nodded at them, before moving ahead to start his search, stuffing as much space between them as he could. He was halfway to the closest doorway in the cave, marveling at the time it must have taken to safely and successfully install doorways throughout a cave, when the door opened on its own.

Keith held his sword more solidly when he caught a glimpse of the ends of Lotor’s hair. Deal or not, he wasn’t putting his blade down. Not unless it was completely necessary. Every soldier in the Altean army mirrored Keith’s vicious stance, Allura included, and the queen shoved her way to the front easily. Now next to Keith and only a few feet from the enemy, she lifted her rapier to point at him from her shortened distance. Really, her stance left much to be desired in terms of intimidation and the soft lighting of the room was doing nothing to make the soft curves of her face appear as vicious as the queen truly was. Perhaps that was for the best, though; the face of the kingdom should inspire peace, not fear. Either way, Lotor was unphased by her aggressive motion and he stepped, unabated, into the room.

And with him, he brought some very important cargo in a very precarious situation.

Lance was in his arms, standing a few inches shorter with the crown of his head at Lotor’s chin. He barely looked alive; the whole of his weight was tilted back against the prince, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was so shallow it was almost unnoticeable. It was probably for the best that his breathing was so short and his chest remained so close to perfectly still, though, with the knife Lotor had pressed against his neck.

The head knight felt something hot shoot through his arms at the sight and he reflexively straightened his spine and loosened his hold on his sword, ready to drop it and run to Lance at a moment’s notice. A sort of vibration started at his shoulders and slowly moved to his hands, filling his limbs with needles, shards of fractured ice, or something equally uncomfortable and anxiety inducing. It was as though his every appendage had gone to sleep the moment Lance was in danger. It would surely make him a lousy fighter and he loathed the fact that, when Lance was involved, his fight or flight responses immediately shifted from his normal, reckless fight to the desperate, fearful flight. He knew his fighting skills weren’t grown to protect, after all, and protecting Lance was all he wanted to do, so flight was often the right choice. Even so, it continued to feel unnatural. 

“I’d like to speak with The Weapon alone,” the prince began, eyeing the Altean queen with a demanding and simultaneously empty glare. Allura made an undignified noise at the suggestion, her foot flying forward to approach the prince and give him a piece of her mind. Her lips were shaping some outraged argument, when Lotor drew a faint, quasi-harmless line across Lance’s neck with his knife. Lance winced, his eyebrows drawn together as a quiet whimper passed his lips. The heat coursing through Keith’s arms got hotter and more protective at the sound, and his sword arm quivered slightly. His own vicious instincts were turning out to be the toughest enemy he’d faced thus far.

Allura had quickly retrieved her vicious forward step, lowering her weapon in surrender and gesturing for the troops to do the same. Keith, however, had very nearly lunged at Lotor, legs practically twitching with the urge to do so. He wanted the satisfaction of echoing the cut along Lance’s neck with a cut along Lotor’s. Lotor exited the same door he’d entered through, the head knight hot on his tail and on the brink of crying sweltering, melted tears. He hardly registered Hunk’s warning before he left after the prince.

“Don’t do anything reckless!”

Keith already felt bad for refusing that suggestion, even _before_ he’d betrayed the archer’s trust. He knew his decision to comply with Lotor’s demands was rash and risky, but there was nothing else he could think to do. Not anything that had as large a probability of Lance making it out of this alive, at least. Accepting Lotor’s offer was risky, clearly, but denying it was far more dangerous. Even so, Keith knew he’d be too guilty to look Hunk in the eye when he got out of this. _If_ he got out of this.

The door shut once Keith entered the separate, smaller room. The Galra prince was looking at him expectantly, Lance still tight in his grip. The brunet had his eyes shut and lips pulled into his mouth, where he could chew them to stifle his whimpers; his face was the perfect picture of terrified. Keith could make out a thin, slow trickle of blood from the fresh cut on Lance’s neck, and as soon as he did, he could feel his pulse in the fingers grasping his sword. Heavy, uneven, loud. The pounding spread throughout his whole body soon enough, overwhelming his every coherent thought with the need to help Lance. It seemed almost like the hilt of his blade was nailed to the palm of his hand, the metal painful in his grip, but near impossible to release. And yet, that look Lotor was giving him… he had to drop it.

Letting his sword clatter unceremoniously to the rocky, crooked floor, he dug his fingers into his sheath and found the glass cone a few inches deep, wedged tightly to keep from falling too far. He slipped it out and held it tightly in his left hand. Whether from his iron grip or his nerves, Keith didn’t know, but his palms were shuddering. One more added stress, and his hands would be trembling too much to accomplish anything; the glass would hit the ground and shatter. And so would his chance of following through on this deal. After all, there was no backup cone, if Lotor was to be believed.

The knight raised the sharpened point to the skin of his upper right arm. In this room, the lighting was violet, and he watched the neon color flicker off both the glass and his wedding ring. Purple seemed just the right color. Blue like his husband’s eyes, and red like the blood he was willing to lose for him, both colors mixed together to form the color of the room in which it would all end. One way, or another, it would finish here. Spiraling into a disaster that got both him and his husband a new bedroom six feet under, or closing gracefully so they could once again return to their worn, old one; it was anyone’s guess. But no matter what, this was the final battle.

He started to bring the object closer, but he was stopped when Lotor spoke. “I should warn you,” he said, eyes far too emotionless to be considered a look of compassionate warning. “This serum is one of a kind, so it’s never been removed before. For all we know, the result could be fatal.” Keith was unwavered. He nodded, no less determined than he had been before the disclosure of the fact. The knight had fully anticipated his life being a possible price in saving his husband, and he had been completely willing to give it up from the start. That was what being married meant, right? _Until death do us part._

Keith took a shaky breath that sunk low into his stomach. His eyes shut as he tried to calm his overheating heart. He was willing to give his all for Lance, but it was a lot harder to _take_ his all for Lance. But there was no guarantee it would be fatal, so surely his hands should have been steadier. It was just the pounding of thoughts in his head, their ceaseless drumming that was unavoidable. The thought of, after all of this, never having Lance in his arms again anyway, despite his best efforts. The thought of never seeing his smile, or hearing his laugh. The thought of gaining his husband’s freedom, but losing the chance to spend that freedom at his side. It almost made him feel as if everything had been for nothing. But no, Lance would never be nothing. He’d told him he was his top priority. And he’d meant it. That was one thing he’d never dare lie about.

He’d made peace with his sacrifice, but Lance, upon hearing that it was indeed a sacrifice, had not. His eyes had been shut soundly until the very moment he heard the word _fatal._ He was exhausted, still wearing the magic snuffer, and—ultimately—utterly defenseless. But there was no way in any level of hell he was letting his husband have anything to do with the word _fatal._ They didn’t belong anywhere near each other. Thrashing his legs about and kicking the prince’s shins, he managed to get Lotor to look down. Taking that victory, Lance swung the top of his head into his enemy’s nose. He heard it crunch, the most satisfying noise he’d heard since Keith’s voice the night before.

In the end, it had probably been a foolish tactic. Throwing your head back when a knife is to your throat doesn’t typically yield pleasant or desired results. Lance’s case was just as one would expect, and he came out of it with an even deeper gash along his neck. He’d hated the word _fatal_ with Keith, and he could now say that having it hanging over his own head wasn’t so great either. But he hadn’t had the time for something safer. Keith had been in immediate danger. Still was, actually.

Lotor had staggered back and dropped his blade, electing to hold his fractured nose, instead. He’d also released his hold on Lance, and the witch bolted forward. Keith hadn’t pricked himself on the glass, yet, and Lance knew he had to get the item out of his grasp before he could. That was the only thing running through his mind as he made rushed footfalls towards the head knight. He hadn’t regained usage of his hands, but he wasn’t going to let that slow him down in the slightest, so he swung his shoulder into Keith’s. His husband hadn’t been expecting his attack, apparently, and his already quaking hands had lost the last semblance of a grip they possessed.

The sound of Lotor’s nose breaking had been outdone.

Royally.

The sound of that offending piece of glass hitting the stone and shattering was far more satisfying. It meant Keith was safe.

Lance was headed to the floor shortly after, head too light and limbs too heavy. Everything within his line of sight was blurry. He crumpled, kept from crashing by Keith’s reflexes alone. The chill of his husband’s armor against his neck was soothing, but as he tried to force himself back, he found that the red on its surface was anything but. The spreading stain was dark and heavy, as though someone had poured grape juice and cornstarch across the chestplate, and suddenly the already metallic scent of the armor was so much stronger in his nose. Lance shut his eyes, pressing himself back over the bloodstains in hopes that Keith wouldn’t notice them. The witch figured his husband was already worried enough as it was, so he deserved a few minutes of ease. Only a delirious, dying man would have been foolish enough to give his husband time to compose himself when he was so clearly out of time himself.

Keith, eyes trained on Lotor, hadn’t noticed the swell of blood on his chestplate and the metal on his shoulders. He was focused on the way Lotor drew a sword and charged him, a glint of an emotion that was less than sane in his eyes. He was focused on the way that Lance was directly between Lotor’s blade and Keith’s stomach, where it was aimed. He was focused on the way that, if he didn’t move _fast,_ he was going to end up getting his husband killed. He was focused on how that was absolutely not going to happen, so long as he was breathing.

Spinning and squatting, he swung Lance in front of him and faced the oncoming attack with his shielded backside. He felt the dent along where Lotor had hit, and upon hearing him stumble back and fall to the ground, he allowed himself a moment to look down at Lance, trying to see if he’d been injured when Keith swung him around as sloppily as that. Lance’s nose was hung right over the top of his armor, above the notch between his collarbones, and he could feel his breath, so Keith let himself smile in relief. The brunet made a pained noise immediately after, though, and the head knight felt panic surge through his veins.

He brought one of his hands to the back of Lance’s head, jostling it forward a fraction of an inch, and was thus met with another miserable sound. Keith was terrified. Forcing himself past the struggle of causing his husband pain, he pulled Lance’s head back and was met with more blood than he knew how to handle. He had no idea where it was coming from and he couldn’t begin to contemplate what to do.

His lungs were burning, his brain screaming for him to do anything at all, but nothing in him was cooperating. The anxiety had turned his muscles to frozen iron. All he could get to drip from his lips was the word no; all he could think was about how important the man in his arms was. He couldn’t lose him. He’d come all this way to save him. He _wouldn’t_ lose him.

Seconds from emptying the contents of his stomach, the head knight called for help, praying the team could hear him. Lotor was preparing another attack and Keith had nowhere else to go. If no one answered his cry, it wouldn’t matter how much or how little Lance was bleeding; Keith would be dead and unable to stop it.

Luckily, it seemed that the Altean army was waiting for a call to arms and, the same second he called for assistance, the door was being broken down. Allura was the first through, so Keith passed Lance haphazardly into her arms for safekeeping, before he spun out of the way of Lotor’s next attack. Sparing a quick look at his now unconscious husband, he darted to where he’d dropped his sword. When he looked up from its spot on the ground, Lance and Allura were gone. Allura knew healing spells, so he trusted her to take care of the source of all the blood on his chestplate.

Finally, he could narrow his attention on only one thing. Lotor.

The violet lighting of the room was dim and the highlight of blue from through the doorway was edging around the back of his shoulders. The curve of the knight’s jaw was icy, silvery blue, but the light across the arch of his nose shone plum. His eyes were flecks of ebony in pools of inhuman yellow, since the serum was climbing higher in his veins and bringing about a subtle change to his features. The blood across his chest was smeared and dripping maroon in the dull light of the side room. Keith dragged a bloody palm across his hairline to tug his bangs out of his eyes, and a single drop fell to pool in the scar along his cheek.

This was it.

The endgame.

Now it was just him and the Galra prince; the rest of Altea’s army had slunk back upon seeing the bloodied, animalistic sheen on Keith’s face. They could tell he wanted to win this fight himself. And he no longer had to play nice, as he hadn’t made a deal with Lotor. The enemy had no husband to dangle over his head anymore, either. It was just two men and two swords. And one man had the bonus of an intense drive to find revenge because you don’t just threaten the life of someone’s spouse without consequence.

Lotor corrected his posture, readying for the duel. “Thanks to your clumsiness, I can’t expect to get the serum for myself. That said, it’s best that no one else has it either. I’m afraid I’m withdrawing my offer to let you all leave.”

Keith flicked more hair out of his eyes. “You wanna get rid of this weapon so bad? Come and drag it out of me, bitch.” Lotor barrelled at him, then, sword aimed to strike Keith’s neck, but the head knight blocked the attack easily and countered it with one of his own. The prince parried it. Running on fumes and pure adrenaline, Keith was disappointed to admit his reflexes were less than what they could have been, but what he lacked in his normal skill, he made up for in increased speed. His attacks were poorly aimed and executed, but he was so adamant in his forward rushes, that Lotor was constantly on the defensive.

Desperate and edging on exhausted, Lotor began to resort to interspersing his sword strikes with magic attacks to tip the scales. Keith was driven back at the influx of electricity spells and was thus sent stumbling into the opposite wall. He hit it with a clatter of his armor and Lotor followed, swinging a slice that Keith could do nothing but block with his blade. He felt trapped. All of his upper body strength was going into keeping his sword functioning as a wall between Lotor’s blade and his throat. He glanced at the doorway that was now immediately to his side, seeing the way all his allies were frozen while watching. On a normal day, in training, he might have followed some overrated code of honor and insisted upon a one-on-one fight, but today was not that day and Lotor was not that honorable an opponent. Hostage taking doesn’t really qualify as a fair fight, either, after all. Reminding himself that there was no such thing as dirty in a life or death battle, Keith shot his allies an urgent look.

Hunk was the first to read it and react appropriately, retrieving an arrow from his quiver and notching it. Someone bumped into him as he fired it, though, and his projectile went astray, rattling to the ground instead of his actual target. It stirred Lotor’s attention, at least, as his eyes flicked to the arrowhead that had clanged by his foot. During that brief lapse of focus, his blade’s pressure against Keith’s arms waned, just slightly. The head knight took what he could get. He shoved off the wall as fiercely as he could possibly manage, so his legs and arms pooled with fire once more, and he shoved his sword forward to send Lotor swaying backwards. Not getting so much as a second to right himself, the prince was caught completely unaware when Keith sprung forward once again.  

He hadn’t even had time to block the blow.

Keith couldn’t begin to describe the satisfaction he felt when his sword ran straight through the Galra prince. It wasn’t something sick, twisted, or inhuman, like a desire to watch him suffer or anything, because, despite all Keith had gone through as a result of his actions, the knight never truly wanted to be the source of his pain. Lotor _had_ hurt Lance and Keith did have a selfish need to make him rue the day he messed with the head knight’s husband, but even then, Keith couldn’t bring himself to be high-spirited at the sight of his suffering. Because, like always, everything seemed to make him think of Lance. And the context of such agonized eyes was lost on his subconscious, so instead of Lotor in front of him, he briefly saw his husband and was consumed by a pain that lingered, even after his senses returned. It was a heavy syrup that poured into the balls of his feet and had him feeling as though he was twice the weight he actually was.

But shallower than the deep seated reminder of his husband’s trauma, closer to the surface of his emotions, was a faint trickle of relief. That strike was the finishing blow, the final domino, the end of this adversity. It meant there was nowhere forward left to go, so the only place he could go, now, was back to Lance and back to his home. It meant all that remained was the pursuit of the ease in his homelife. So, while inflicting Lotor’s injury in itself hadn’t been gratifying, the end it signified certainly was.

After the sword went through his gut, the tip of the prince’s sword dragged across the stone flooring first, when his hand fell to his side and tugged the blade along for the ride; it rang a screech that echoed far longer in Keith’s ears than it should have. The sound of a steak knife cutting a dinner plate, slow and jumping in pitch and speed as it ran along grooves and peaks in the rigid stone. Shortly after that noise, the hilt followed to the ground, so the two ends rattled up and down and created more excruciatingly deafening echoes.

And Keith slipped his blade out of the Galra prince. Cleanly, quickly, and without remorse. He whipped the weapon to one side, forcing the blood down the blade and off the end, so a few droplets were launched at the wall of the room. Lotor wasn’t dead yet, but he was minutes away, and thus wasn’t likely to get up any time soon. Keith swiftly turned in the same clockwise manner he’d swung his dirtied sword, with his eyes shut and crimson liquid still glinting the shade of wine along his forehead and cheeks. His lids lifted slowly and his army parted easily at the doorway to allow his exit of the room that was starting to gather the stench of death. It was coppery and hefty in his lungs.

But when he’d left the scent behind, when he’d turned from the dying body in the side room, he hadn’t expected to find yet another dying body and an even thicker wave of the deathly odor. Let alone to find out that the body and smell belonged to his husband. His heart had slowed after the climax of that battle, but now it leapt back into his mouth, so he found himself unable to both breathe and speak. He ran forward, collapsing to the floor and ignoring the awful screeching of his armored knees along the stone below. He leant over Lance, the blood of his chest plate not yet dry and thus dripping onto Lance’s already bloodsoaked clothing. The spot of his collar on which it landed was already completely saturated and the ruby droplet rolled further down Lance’s chest until it hit a dry patch and was sucked in.

Keith’s mind was whirring with questions. How long had he been fighting Lotor? How long had Lance been bleeding? How much blood had he lost? How much more blood could he possibly afford to lose?

_How much time did Keith have left with him?_

Coran had torn off part of his shirt and was applying as much pressure as he could to the wound without choking Lance, while Allura was running her hands through the air above the site in futile attempts to heal the gash. The queen was crying, looking almost as desperate as Keith did, with frantic hands and a trembling lip. Her shoulders were hunched like the burden of saving someone’s life was placed _physically_ atop her spine. Her hands only moved from their spells to wipe the tears and snot from her face, which was just as useless an endeavor. She was no longer the dignified image of a queen; she’d become the broken mirror of Keith, the fractured image that  was going to have to tell him his husband couldn’t be saved. That the man he’d come all this way to rescue was going to die right here, on the floor of some dirty cave, as if Keith had never made an effort at all. That his husband would die without a goodbye. She looked unnaturally human, atypically fragile, and irregularly humbled then, far from her normal appearance as someone with features that were elegant and regal. Because in that moment, she wasn’t the queen. She was just a woman watching two lovers get torn apart.

“Your Majesty,” Keith choked, unable to reach Lance’s face in order to cradle it like he wanted. Coran and Allura were on either side of his head, trying to delay the despicably inevitable, and Keith was left the farthest from his lover. “I don’t understand, you know healing spells. Why isn’t the blood stopping?” The queen made a strangled noise, before tapping a bloodied nail on the band around Lance’s arm. Keith leaned towards it, once again met with the familiar sheen of an enchantment. He brushed a finger along it, startled by the heat emanating from what he’d assumed would be a frosty ring of metal. The heat reminded him that not all was lost, yet. Lance was still breathing, his skin was still warm. All Keith had to do was strategize. Surely, _surely_ there was a solution.

Lotor spoke from the side room. “I’m the one who enchanted that magic snuffer, and my spell strength is second only to Haggar. There’s no way you can make it through.” Keith swung himself up at that. He sprinted back into Lotor’s room, fully intent on threatening him until he broke the enchantment, but by the time he’d gotten there, the prince was unconscious, spilling blood at an even faster rate than Lance was. And he’d erected a barrier around himself, too. The head knight thought it odd that he could cast a spell like that, even while passed out from blood loss, but he didn’t have the luxury to consider it. He was under a time crunch. There was only so much more blood Lance could lose and, judging by the pace at which he was bleeding, Keith guessed he had no more than a minute and a half to find a solution. And that was the maximum.

He pounded his fist against the barrier in frustration. There was no way. He’d come so far, he’d done everything he could, he’d done everything _correctly,_ yet it was all about to fall apart into some tragic disaster? There was no _fucking_ way. Keith didn’t fight this far and this long to return home a widow. He wasn’t going to accept reality until he found a solution. Until it was over, it wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

The head knight raked his nails down the front of the barrier, bending the wall under the pressure, but it was nowhere near enough to get through. He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, as if, should he shake hard enough, a solution would pop out of his ear. Keith needed to think, but— _forty five seconds left_ —his whole mind was reeling too fast to concentrate. Like he’d been hung upside down, or he’d been spinning in circles. He needed to run through what he could do; he needed to work backwards and find out what he had to do first.

His ultimate goal was to get Lance healed. To do that, he needed to reverse the magic snuffer’s effects. To do that, he needed to break the enchantment. To do that, he needed to find magic stronger than Lotor’s. To do that, he needed Haggar’s magic. But where could he find that? The woman was dead, and— _thirty seconds left_ —they hadn’t exactly gathered any of her belongings before leaving the castle. Clearly they didn’t have the time for it now, even with teleportation magic. Was there really nothing Keith could do?

Keith’s throat was burning and he could feel the swells of tears along his cheeks. There was so much he still wanted to tell Lance, so much he wanted to do with him, so much of their lives left that he wanted to spend together. His heart was already molten lead in his chest, but when he recalled how boldly he’d lied to Lance, the liquid organ dripped deeper into his stomach, feeling as though it had scorched through every bit of his insides on its way down. He’d told his husband that he would be okay. He’d _promised_ him. And, Gods, those had been his last words to him. His last words couldn’t be a lie, there _had_ to be a solution.

Something stronger than Lotor’s magic. Keith had been stronger than Lotor, perhaps his serum was strong enough by extension? But Keith couldn’t just remove his serum to inject it into the snuffer; that was both impractical and unlikely to work. Not to mention— _fifteen seconds left_ —too time consuming. No, no, no, he was running out of time. There had to be something in there. In the train of thought with the serum. At least Keith hoped there would be, since he didn’t have the time to switch his thought process now. The serum— _ten seconds left_ —was so powerful, not even Lotor’s magic could get through. That’s why— _nine seconds left_ —he had to use the glass his mother had enchanted— _eight seconds left_ —rather than one he’d simply enchanted himself. Keith considered that. The glass had been enchanted by _Haggar,_ the only spellcaster confirmed to be more powerful than Lotor. So, in the glass, he’d found his solution.

He began to scan the ground for fragments of the glass. Keith could see tons of them, but— _seven seconds left_ —they were all inside Lotor’s barrier. Gods, no, this couldn’t be it. The head knight stumbled towards the doorway of the side room— _six seconds left_ —with eyes flitting about the ground, in hopes of finding a stray piece of glass. Just _one_ fragment. But even throughout the time and distance it had taken him to reach Lance again, he found nothing. He took another— _five seconds left_ —shaky step forward, ready to give up completely, but something crunched beneath his foot. Keith lifted his metal boot hastily, checking its underside and finding the fine powder of shattered glass on his heel.

Brushing it onto his finger, the head knight sagged— _four seconds left_ —to the stone ground next to Lance once more. He leaned over the bloody body, finger stretched towards the waxy feel of the snuffer. Keith breathed— _three seconds left_ —which wasted a second, but might still have saved Lance’s life. The knight had to be careful, after all. He couldn’t afford to prick his finger on the sharp pieces now, as, should Lotor’s warning prove correct and should the glass still work, the results would be fatal. And it was unlikely that anyone else could reach Lance in time, should Keith die.

The head knight pressed his finger to the band— _two seconds left_ —and forced the glass powder down. The warm, film-like substance along the band’s surface turned to the same smooth metal of the inside of a spoon, and the sheen of an enchantment Keith had seen earlier was gone. The head knight turned to Lance’s chest, seeing it stuttering, but still moving with the intake of oxygen, and he found himself just slightly relieved. His eyes were as saturated with tears as Lance’s collar had become with blood. The water spilled over his lower lids and his entire line of sight was blurred— _one second left_ —as he looked back to Allura’s hands. By now, he was certainly out of time, if he hadn’t already been out before, and he could only hope his solution had reached Lance in time. That the queen’s spells had reached him in time.

Coran pulled back the cloth he’d been slowing the blood flow with. It was drenched, but as Keith stretched his hand to tentatively brush it along the wound, he no longer felt a gash. A few more seconds of Allura’s spells, and the blood had disappeared, too. The head knight had been holding himself up with his arm, so he could lean across Lance and reach the band, but his elbows buckled. Keith almost collapsed and he only stayed up with the determination to be _sure._ He moved the hand that had been on the band to Lance’s pulse point.

There was a beat.

And another beat.

And another sound _like_ a beat, when Keith fell forward and his forehead hit Lance’s stomach.

He was elated. Lance had made it; his husband was alive. The knight kissed the fabric beneath his face at the realization. Such a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders and, for a second, he felt like he was floating at the loss of weight atop his skull and along his spine. Like he was able to breathe for the first time in days. But then the weight came crashing back down. A weight of sleep deprivation and of the side effects of stress came bludgeoning down on every inch of his skin, so his entire body tingled.

Lance had always been warm; Keith had thought about it the entire time they were separated. The way every inch of him was positively radiant with warmth was something about his husband he’d missed immensely and consciously over the past few days, yet only just now was he realizing exactly how much he’d pined for it. It was all there against his cheek; Lance’s heat, his steady breaths, his _sunshine_ that Keith had been unable to shake from his mind for literal days. And it was so much more comforting than he’d appreciated before. He wanted to spend every second of his life appreciating it—appreciating Lance—until he had no more seconds of his life to give. He wanted to start doing so now, but the tingle along his skin had started to spread deeper and it lulled him into sleep.

Lance was safe, he reminded himself. Lance was safe, so, yes, he could sleep. His husband would still be breathing when his eyes reopened. He’d made sure of that much. He’d made sure there would still be time for all the things he’d wanted to say, all the love he’d wanted to give. And that was all that mattered for now. The illegal activity, the magic, the trauma, he could conquer it all, just so long as he had his husband. As long as he had Lance, he could face everything else.

And he could wait to do it until they both woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought o3o I'm kinda meh about this chapter... probably cuz I've been looking forward to writing it since ch 1, so nothing could ever live up to my lofty expectations lol. Hopefully it lived up to yours, though!! :) also please point out any typos cuz I'm v tired ;--;
> 
> next chapter should be soft and wholesome ARE YA READY KIDS?!


	13. The Awaited Embrace of Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, thinking about how I made Keith's habit to look up when he laughs and Lance's habit to look down when he laughs, so they go together like a goddamn puzzle or some cliche bs like that: okAY this is fINE ;--;
> 
> It's the last chapter!! There will be an uber long note at the end, and I just wanna ask you to please read it, cuz sequel info and stuff will be in there :))
> 
> Now, please enjoy your last update of The Criminal Witch and His Knight of a Husband ;)  
> see you, space cowboy...

Keith was submerged in warmth when he started to come to. It was a kind of pleasantness he couldn’t describe, but that was strongly recognizable in his head as something that reminded him of Lance. It was like the steam from the bubble baths he loved, a heated and foggy breath that fanned over his body and made him feel at ease. It was like the head Lance would rest against Keith’s chest, like the silky texture of his hair and the plush heat of his skin. It was like the air from his nose as he slept, silent and steady and just a subtle reassurance that everything would be okay.

The knight sat up, opened his eyes, and began assessing the details of his surroundings. He saw the intricate designs of royal symbols along the wall, elegant doodles of the Altean insignia. The pitcher of water on the table to his right and the empty cot past that told him he was in the medical wing of the castle. He looked at his lap and saw that someone had changed him out of his armor and into lilac pajamas. They felt the same as the royal fabric of Keith’s scarf. His palms were against the signature doughy mattress of the Altean castle and he brushed his fingertips along the soft sheets that had bunched around his waist. The heat was creeping from his back, leaking into the air and leaving the desire to go back to sleep pooling in his stomach and around his eyes.

He stared at the empty bed across the room for a moment, observing its pristine sheets and its rounded pillows, both of which had clearly not been used recently. The head knight started to feel panicked. The other cot surely would have been given to Lance, so the fact that it was empty was immensely concerning. Keith threw the covers from his legs and swung one foot over the edge of his bed, his heart pounding higher and higher up his throat, until it felt like he was about to throw up. He couldn’t hear anything other than the rapid fire beating of the organ.

Left with only the hope that they’d perhaps placed his husband in a separate room, he began to push himself up. Only the toes of one foot hit the chilled tile, before he felt something graze his left side. Keith looked at the touched spot along his hip bone, finding a hand looped around the end of his shirt. A left hand with a very familiar ring around one finger. He traced his sight up the arm and found himself eye to drooping, foggy eye with his husband, the smaller man giving a sweet, fragile smile. Keith returned it, slipping his legs back onto the bed.

Lance was blinking dew out of his eyes, both due to his normal, watery, morning eyes and what Keith hoped was contentedness at being able to see him again. He still looked exhausted; he had curling, grey shapes beneath his eyes and his head had sunken into his pillow. It seemed to be buried in the soft cotton of its case and it appeared as though the feathers inside were trying to reach up around his head to hug his cheeks. The head knight reached a hand forward, brushing his thumb across Lance’s face. There were bruises along it, the most obvious of which were the collections that sat by either corner of his mouth, where the gag had been wrapped too tightly. Keith brought his hand higher, to the rise of cheekbone under his husband’s eye, where another sizeable bruise lay. He hardly dared to let his fingers touch the spot, since the slightest graze had Lance’s nose wrinkling in a poor attempt to mask his pain. He let his hand slip to the matted and dirty hair behind his husband’s ears, instead.

Brushing through the locks, he pulled his knees up under him and began to detangle the knots. The brunet attempted to bring himself into a sitting position to meet Keith, but the second he lifted his head and shifted his numerous injuries, he winced and dropped his head back to the pillow. The head knight caught a glimpse of the silvery trail of a scar along his husband’s neck when he made the motion, and Keith’s fingers swept down to meet it. He rubbed over the grooves and ridges of it, tears welling in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Throat starting to burn, he ducked his head and hid his leaking eyes from his husband. “This is all my fault.” Keith felt a hand on the end of his shirt again, and it slipped up his stomach until it sat across his chest. With his head dipped, the fingers were able to reach his cheeks, so they did, just barely ghosting over the scar along Keith’s face. For the second time, Lance tried to lift himself from where he lie on his side and he shuffled his right arm out from under his body’s weight. He managed to get up, then placed his hand on Keith’s shoulder, seemingly lightheaded. Unsurprising, considering the amount of blood he’d lost.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered, voice crumbled around the edges, as it was a sound that hadn’t been properly used in days. Lance slipped his hand from atop Keith’s shoulder to along his collarbones, and rested it finally against his nape. The knight lifted his head from staring down at his lap and brought it to lean more heavily against the index finger that cupped highest up on his neck. In response, his husband twisted his hand so he could rake all of his fingers up into Keith’s scalp and, for a moment, he merely tugged the knots out of the mangled mess. His face softened and melted, his nose sniffed, and his lip started to quiver. But that only lasted an instant, until something else shattered the sadness in his expression and exposed fear. His hand fell back to his side, and he backed up a little, so his spine hit the wall of the room. He tugged his legs to his chest and buried his nose between his knees. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this difficult.”

Keith wanted to chase after his husband’s reclusive movement; he wanted to remove the distance he’d placed between them, since they’d already been so far apart for so long. But husband or not, there were boundaries, and if Lance wanted distance, he had no right to infringe upon that. Especially not after all he’d been through as of late. It took a lot of restraint, though. “Make what difficult?” Keith worried about why Lance was pulling back. He still carried his affection openly and legibly in his eyes, so it wasn’t a lack of love, but the head knight couldn’t think of anything else it might be. Until he _did_ think of something. And it was awful.

He leaned forward, still not within Lance’s personal space, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Did he,” his sentence fell flat, words suddenly crumpling as much as Lance’s had been. “Lance, did Lotor--” he sucked in air, hoping his eyes alone could convey what he meant. Was Lance shying from him because Lotor had done more than just hurt him? Had the Galra prince touched him? The thought was sickening in the pit of Keith’s stomach; it was boiling behind his chest so his heart felt like flames.

Lance lifted his head from his knees at the unfinished question, asking his own with his eyes. He found the answer within Keith’s dark eyes, face reflexively scrunching up at the look’s implication. The head knight feared the worst—that the face Lance had made meant his hypothesis was correct—but Lance corrected his assumption. “No!” Lance stuffed his crinkled nose back into the crook between his folded legs, releasing another muffled, “no.”

Keith huffed a mouthful of air. “Then what could you possibly be ‘making difficult’?” His husband hacked a choked noise from his mouth, lifting a hand there to stifle a sobbing sound. It was somehow more painful to watch that sight than it had been to watch Lotor hurt him. Because before, there had been nothing he could do; Lance had been out of reach. He was helpless, sure, but somehow this, when he was capable of helping, but still couldn’t do so out of a respect of boundaries, was so much worse. There was no violent solution to this; Lance didn’t want to be touched right now, made obvious by the fact that he’d pulled his own hand back. So Keith, just like every day he’d been away from Lance, could do nothing but watch and twiddle his fingers. They pressed between his tucked legs, betwixt his thighs and by his knees, and the nails dug through his pants and into the flesh underneath as a distraction from the instinct to reach out.

“Keith, I,” Lance was starting to hiccup too much to speak. “I don’t wanna be affectionate with you, ‘cuz if I do, it’s gonna be harder for you when,” he stopped his sentence slowly, his already whispering tone edging into silence more with every word, until nothing else had come out. Keith couldn’t wrap his head around what Lance was implying, for reasons that were a combination of lack of clarity and his distraction by a drive to help Lance. When what? His world was caving in around him, walls collapsing over his eardrums so they rang and pounded loudly in his brain. Had some doctor come in and told Lance that he wasn’t going to make it? Had Keith not been in time after all?

“When what, Lance?” Keith asked, desperately removing his fingers from his legs to inch them towards Lance, but they still stopped short of the man. His voice was cracking. How many times had he almost lost Lance, now? He couldn’t go through it all again.

“If I act all stupid and mushy, it’ll be hard for you to tell me that you don’t wanna be with me anymore.” Lance ducked his head further, so his ears were between his knees, now, not just his cheekbones. The back of Keith’s neck got warm with fear, his ears felt like steam, and his stomach hurt so horribly he could feel it inside his skull as a migraine, too. The idea of Lance thinking, even for a second, that he was so cruel that he’d _leave him_ right after he’d almost died was excruciating. Why would he _ever_ leave him? “I’m sorry, I understand why you’d want to, but it still hurts.” Keith could tell Lance was working himself closer and closer to a full fledged anxiety attack; his breaths were coming shallower and faster, his hands were trembling. And Keith’s lack of response made him wrap his arms more tightly about his folded legs, so his nails were undoubtedly denting his skin through the fancy pajamas. And yet, Keith found himself without words.

Finally realizing Lance’s reasoning for pulling away, he deemed he could gingerly inch a hand forward. He did so slowly, like he was reaching for a dangerous or frightened animal, and he made sure Lance saw his palm before it touched him, so he’d have the chance to force it away, should he want to. The brunet did no such thing, even as the fingertips dragged his chin up and Keith slid closer. “Lance, why would I ever want to leave you?” His words had made their appearance at last, albeit shakily. Keith tugged his thumb against the dent beneath Lance’s cheekbone, collecting saltwater along the appendage. His husband didn’t shrink back, this time, but he did bite his lip nervously.

“I kept being a witch from you and I shouldn’t have. And I’m a _criminal,_ you can’t be married to a criminal!” Keith gave no outward change in expression at Lance’s answer, he merely dipped his thumb lower and brushed Lance’s bottom lip out of the grip of his gnawing teeth.

“I can be married to whomever I want. And that means _you._ I told you before, the witch thing doesn’t matter to me. _You_ matter to me.” Lance yanked his chin from Keith’s grip, turning his gaze over his shoulder. Keith’s face fell, and his skin got hotter. He was probably nearing an anxiety attack just as quickly as Lance. “Lance, _please,_ you mean everything to me. I’d never leave you because you broke some law that was dumb anyway. Please, believe me.”

“Keith, I hid things from you. You didn’t deserve that.” Keith had to watch more water pool at the underside of Lance’s eyes. He had to watch them spill over the dark circles of sleep deprivation underneath. “Why should you even forgive me?” The head knight swore his insides had frozen over and then had been fractured. It had been like that since the start, when Lance first went missing. Throughout this whole journey, they’d frozen over and had begun to crack, but Lance thinking he was unforgivable was the last crack his heart could take. He broke. He swiftly took both of Lance’s cheeks into his hands and faced his head towards Keith’s.

“Listen to me,” he breathed, unable to so much as see clearly, with how much he was crying. “You were scared, Lance. I don’t know why you thought for even a second that I would have had you executed, but you _did,_ and you were _scared._ It makes sense that you didn’t tell me.” Keith pushed his head forward, so their noses touched. “But I guess that doesn’t make it _okay,_ and I never want you doing it again because I am one person you _never_ have to be scared of, but I’m not mad.” He pressed a kiss to Lance’s lips. It was salty with tears and sweet with affection.

Lance finally unfolded from his spot against the wall, sobbing harder and reaching out to cling to Keith. He was wailing apologies still, nose buried deep into the crook of his husband’s shoulder and lungs hacking the words against the skin of Keith’s collarbones. The knight lifted his hands to Lance’s back and head instinctually, rubbing circles against the silk of his clothes. “So, you’re not leaving?” His words were soft and broken, so the same design that painted the feeling of Keith’s insides was dripping from Lance’s every word. The question was answered with a shaken head, before a kiss landed against the brunet’s temple. His anxious trembling began to slow. Lance dragged his hand up to cup Keith’s neck again, tangling in his hair as he’d done before.

Their embrace was slowly warming. Lance was finally relaxing his muscles, no longer scared of his husband and Keith was finally at ease, no longer scared of losing his. He was pushing them as close together as he could and Lance nudged his nose against Keith’s neck every time the knight tightened his hold. His breathing was steady now. Even and calm, no longer stained with heavy tears. Keith could feel the flesh over his shoulder go cold when Lance breathed in.

“Keith?” The knight hummed and slid his hands further up Lance’s spine in response. His fingers resumed untangling Lance’s unkempt hair. “It wasn’t ‘cuz I was scared of you.” Pulling him away from the crook of his neck, Keith looked into his husband’s nervous face. He’d begun to detach his hands from whatever bit of Keith he’d previously been grounding himself with, fingers slow and hesitant to leave. The head knight kept his caress on the back of Lance’s neck, though, too afraid that, should he let go, his husband would simply wither away or slink back to terrified hiding. “At first, it just wasn’t important. I stopped practicing magic pretty much entirely after it became illegal, so it didn’t seem relevant. And then I wanted to get my certification, but you became head knight and I didn’t wanna ruin your chance at the position with some dumb scandal.” He was at the start of rambling; his words were slurring, his bruised lips were stuttering over every syllable. His hands were drawn farther back, into his lap, and he spun his wedding ring about his finger without looking. Keith felt like crying again, a mix between guilt and adoration puddling in his veins.

“You did it for me?” Lance’s gaze fluttered to his lap, a silent plea for Keith not to be angry with him. The knight could read it easily. He pulled Lance closer again, firmly against his lips, savoring the way his husband scrambled to get his hands out from being sandwiched between their chests, and into Keith’s hair. He could feel how raw the flesh of his husband’s lips felt beneath his own, and he noticed how the hot, coppery taste and feel remained, even as his touch strayed to the edges of Lance’s mouth. The head knight peeled Lance from his mouth, like he’d been a burr on the fabric of his lips, and he spoke again. “Do you ever do _smart_ things for me?”

Lance laughed at the joke, and he did it in the endearing way Keith remembered thinking about and longing for when they were apart. His eyelashes had batted, he’d hesitated in comprehension and appreciation of the line, and he tumbled forwards to angle his chuckle at his lap and the bedspread draped across it. He’d made a raspberry noise behind his hand. Keith bent forward to kiss the back of Lance’s hand, before pulling it aside to land one atop his lips again. It was chaste, and he pulled back to say, “Lance, from now on, how about we ask before doing reckless things for each other, okay? I promise, I’m always gonna be on your side, just communicate with me.” Lance nodded.

“Okay. I’m sor--” Keith leaned forward and cut him off with a brief kiss. He pulled back to shake his head at the unfinished apology, then swung back forward. The next kiss was heavy, but not faded in innocence. He tugged his lips along the bruising around Lance’s mouth, sure to kiss every darkened purple spot he saw along the smooth skin. The injuries were collections of maroon speckles in faintly discolored puddles of bruises. They dotted the skin like they were stars and he was the night sky. After following the milky way of injuries, he strayed and trailed the line of Lance’s jaw to pepper a few kisses along the shell of his ear, buzzing his lips to make the brunet repeat his endearing laugh routine.

He slipped down, following the familiar expanse of Lance’s neck, until he hit the scar that remained new and unfamiliar territory. Pulling back, he lifted a hand to trace the faint, pale line that spread from one side of Lance’s throat to the other. His eyes weren’t focused there, though; they were drifting between the scar and his husband’s eyes, attempting to read if the faded injury still caused him any pain. His husband smiled at the tender gesture and brushed the back of his hand along Keith’s cheek in thanks, before the knight slowly ducked forward again, nudging the compassionate hand on his cheek aside. He sprinkled the space above the scar with kisses, before repeating the action in the area below. Finally, he placed a lingering touch of his lips against the center of the injury, as a grim reminder to himself.

A reminder that he’d almost lost Lance; that he’d been less than a minute away from losing everything that mattered to him. A reminder that the man in his arms wouldn’t hesitate to give his life for Keith, expressed in all the hell he went through to keep Keith safe. A reminder that he’d very nearly come to meet his least favorite part of their vows: _until death do us part._

But by the same token, it was a reminder that none of that had come to pass. He hadn’t lost Lance, he hadn’t been too late. His husband hadn’t given his life up in exchange for Keith’s. The scar was a physical manifestation of Lance’s survival, of his dedication to keep Keith safe; a dedication that paralleled Keith’s dedication in magnitude and pride and every other way. More than anything else, his injury was a reminder for Keith to protect his husband. Maybe now more than ever, with the possibility of execution on the horizon. He had to be sure he was looking out for Lance as much as the brunet was looking out for him.

Keith traced his nose along the waving line of the faded injury, tightening his arms around Lance as he did, so his nose pressed into the ridge of the scar and dented his husband’s skin temporarily. The brunet hummed, making Keith’s whole face buzz, and leaned back until his spine rested against the wall again. It was a movement the head knight followed, not wanting to peel back from the scar quite yet and definitely refusing to let go of Lance. His hands were settled on either side of his husband’s rib cage, stroking the fabric of his shirt and the skin underneath that was undoubtedly just as soft. Keith could feel Lance’s jaw against his forehead when the brunet yawned.

“How ugly is it?” It was clear that the question was referring to the scar Keith was pressed against, so the head knight kissed it in answer. He was probably high off of Lance’s heat, too delirious to answer. It wouldn’t be entirely implausible for that to be true; he was practically addicted to the warmth like it was an actual drug, after all, but it’s not like it bothered him. He was happy to indulge in his desire to pull closer.

“It’s on _you,_ ” he breathed, mouthing the piece of paler skin and smiling at the shudder that passed Lance’s spine at the hot air and chapped lips. “How bad could it be?” He kissed the juncture of Lance’s neck and shoulder, before pulling back again. He brought a hand away from his husband’s hip and cradled the darkest bruise Lance had, which clung to his cheekbone. Keith brushed his thumb over the patch of maroon skin, staring at the contrast in color between his milky finger and the darkened injury. Shifting his gaze from Lance’s cheekbone to his eyes, he asked, “how’d you get this?” There was a protective edge to his voice, something that demanded answer and released a fog of fury. Like the way steam bursted from a pot the moment you took the lid off.

Lance hummed again, lifting his face so the hand along his cheek rested on his jaw, before he let the whole weight of his head press into Keith’s palm. “When I woke up, I picked a fight with Lotor and lost.” A pathetically unconvincing grin curved his lips. “If you think that one is bad, you should see the ones on my stomach.” Keith didn’t ask for any more details, but he did move both of his hands to the hem of Lance’s shirt. Peeling it up, he found Lance’s ominous statement to be correctly placed. He slipped the fabric further, dragging a hand along the unevenly colored flesh. His heart started to shake in his chest, the vibrations traveling through his arms towards his wandering fingertips. His husband reached down to wrap his fingers around Keith’s, drawing the knight’s gaze back to his face, where a dry smile sat. “Hey, now. I know you’re eager, but what happened to not doing it in the queen’s beds?” He winked and the flirtatious move looked _off_ with the way his eyelashes and bruised cheekbone were closer in complexion than usual.

Still, Keith’s heart calmed at the vague familiarity of it and he winked back. “So you don’t want me to kiss it better?” A moment of the standard hesitation. Then a spill of laughter that made the blue of his eyes sparkle and the muscles beneath Keith’s hands tighten, so that Keith trained his sight on the bruises once more. He frowned, starting to trace patterns along the discolored skin like he was playing connect-the-dots with the dark flecks of purple in the lilac tones of Lance’s flesh. His mood fell to about the same dullness as the faded color. It reminded him of the shade of Lance’s skin when he’d gifted Keith the scarf, and he worried that the sight of the color now would forever taint the positive images of the past. His head was hung, so when he flitted his eyes up to his husband, he was peering through his lashes. “Lance?”

The man smiled, his eyes squinting joyously when Keith leaned closer and his hands fell to the mattress on either side of his hips. Lance was sitting cross legged, but his husband brought himself to stand on his knees, so he could reach the familiar angle of seeing Lance from a few inches above. Keith rubbed a gentle kiss against the brunet’s faintly smiling lips, landing their foreheads together. Tilting back away after, only an inch, he heard Lance sigh, before responding to the call of his name from earlier. “What’s up?”

“You know that I love you, right? None of this changed that.” Keith always feared he wasn’t being clear enough in his affection, since Lance was so much better at communicating his feelings. He’d gotten pretty efficient at reading his husband’s expressions and the emotions they conveyed; he’d, after years of practice, been able to identify when Lance needed reassurance. The flicker of the light in Lance’s eyes, the sheen of water that had reflected it, told him his interpretation that now was one of those times had been correct. The brunet smiled a large and genuine smile at the knight’s statement. Keith read the pleasant curve of his mouth and the mirth of the tears in his eyes until the pure, unfaltering happiness behind both let all the stress leak from his body. He no longer saw the bruises on Lance’s face; he was distracted by the joy etched on every rise and fall of his features.

“You’re really too good to me,” Lance squeezed out, pushing the words past the happiness dripping from his mouth in the form of giddy laughter. While the sound was neither tangible nor visible, Keith could only think to describe it as liquid sunshine. Or maybe that would better suit the gleeful tears dribbling down his bunched cheeks. The head knight dragged the back of his nails along the underside of Lance’s cheekbone, until they reached his hairline above his ears. His hand slipped there, just to feel the heat of his husband beneath the pads of his fingers.

“No, I think I’m the right amount of good. We both do our fair share of goodness.” He ran his tongue along his smile absentmindedly. Pushing closer to his husband, he lifted his lips to kiss away a few of his tears. “That’s what husbands do, right? We’re a team.” The head knight felt the cheeks under his lips bulge more in an even larger smile. And then Lance nodded, so their foreheads clonked together and a few more droplets dripped from his eyelashes.  

“Thank you, Keith,” Lance met Keith’s eyes, his brows low on his face in a way that made the features meet his eyelashes. His smile was soft and his hand was, too, as it reached out to clasp Keith’s one free set of fingers. “We are a good team.” A snort. “All miscommunication aside.” He pushed close to the knight, resting his chin against his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

The door swung open with a thundering sound and Keith tumbled back from Lance at the start. His fight or flight responses seemed to be back to normal, because he threw himself out of bed to raise his fists at whoever had entered. His shirt was askew on his shoulders, his hair was strewn about in a less than professional manner, and his hands were shaking more than they were making fists. Lance now looked flustered, still pressed against the wall with his stomach exposed. The woman at the door blinked, eyes darting between the couple, before she broke into a smile with one eyebrow raised.

“Am I interrupting something?” Keith was almost tempted to lower his fists now that he’d seen it was the queen who’d opened the door, but he kept his guard up. After all, Lance was in line to be executed, as far as the law was concerned. The knight had a good feeling, though, since the playful glint to her grin didn’t exactly scream arrest. “Oh, c’mon put those weapons down. You’ll like the news I’m bringing, I promise.” With more obedience than he liked, he dropped his arms and sat on the edge of the mattress. It dipped when Lance crawled forward to sit next to him and a little ways back, so Keith could feel his heat, but couldn’t see him. He could also feel the way Lance’s hand gripped his nervously and he made sure to squeeze back.

The queen pulled a paper out from behind her back, passing it between the two men in wait for one of them to grab it. Keith turned to look at Lance, noting the way he was biting his lip and refusing to reach out towards the sheet. His husband tucked his nose into the back of Keith’s shoulder blade to hide his face when Keith took the paper for himself. He skimmed the writing on the page, words like _mage_ and _royal_ sticking out in the fray, but what caught his eye most was the pretty cursive signature of _Queen Allura_ at the bottom. It was formal documentation and it was meant for Lance.

Keith shrugged his shoulder so Lance removed his face from being buried in the plush fabric along his back. The brunet looked to his husband first, a silent question of whether or not this paper was something he wanted to read. He received a nod and began to trace over each curl of every letter with slow, steady sweeps of his eyes. Upon hitting the bottom of the page, his line of sight shot up to the queen.

“You’re certifying me?”

She nodded. “I did say I would at the start, didn’t I?” Lance supposed that, yes, she had said that, but he wasn’t expecting her to follow through when he’d been torn from the team before being able to truly finish his end of the deal. He was gripping the paper in his hands with a fervor that folded the edges and wet them with the sweat of his nervous hands. “But wait! There’s more!” She took yet another pristine sheet of cleanly printed upon paper out from behind her back, her neat handwriting detailing yet another thing of import.

The head knight was the one to question this one. “You’re rewriting the law?”

“Indeed! I honestly should have done it years ago, but the anti-witch law wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. I moved it up, just for you two.” She smiled again, before placing both of her hands on her waist in a proud stance. Keith was wreaking the same havoc on this page as Lance was the other. He turned to shoot Lance a pleased look, eyes soft upon seeing his husband looking down at his certification with an awestruck expression.

His eyes were glittering with more tears than he was hydrated enough to safely produce, a few trailing his cheeks to land on his lap. His lips were parted into a shocked grin that let tiny, short whimpers slip past. He turned to shine the grin at Keith, first, before the look was passed onto Allura. The head knight felt his stomach fill with love for the flabbergasted man to his side and he took one of Lance’s hands back from the certification document to grip it in his own.

“So I’m not a criminal?”

Allura laughed. “No, you’re not. And you’re also not obligated to work at the castle, since I made an exception for you. You can be employed as a mage if you want, but it’s not mandatory. I wouldn’t wanna force Castle Town’s one tailor to shut down his business, after all!” Lance was halfway through thinking up his most extravagant thank you, happy to accept both his certification and the ability to continue his work as a tailor at the same time. Before he could express his gratitude, however, there were resounding, deep, footsteps past the open door, all headed down the hallway and towards their room. Pidge was the first to come to a skidding halt.

“Hey, I heard the dumbasses are awake,” she shouted. It lacked animosity, a fact made clear by the way she was beaming. The mage started to take a step forward, but another body knocked into hers and sent her wobbling to the tiling of the hallway. While she went tumbling over with a screech, the man who’d run into her stood upright and placed his hand on the doorframe to steady himself.

“Keith, you’re grounded,” Shiro said, also in a tone that failed to portray any violent or frustrated intentions.

“I’m a grown ass man, Shiro!” The knight shrugged, also about to step inside, before the event from a second ago repeated itself. Hunk sent him flying to the ground next to Pidge and swung his head to face the couple on the bed.

“You’re awake!” He was the first soldier to actually make it through the doorway and he moved to stand next to Allura. Pidge scrambled to join him in front of the bed. She crossed her arms over her chest smugly while the archer fished something out of his pocket. He held a tub of something out to Lance, the cylindrical canister giving off the impression of some fancy skin product or makeup. The newly appointed mage accepted the gift, after placing his certification paper down to pull this item into his hold instead, then immediately unscrewed its cap to check the contents. It was a cream of some sort, the waft of vanilla hitting his nose upon bringing it closer to his face. Lance smiled and shut his eyes. “Yeah,” Hunk said, pride seeping into his voice. “That part’s me.”

Pidge elbowed him in the arm, sticking her tongue out at the way he yelped, before she began her explanation. “So, when we got back, I did some digging on healing spells ‘cuz this mission taught me I should be more responsible or something, I dunno. Anyway, I found some potion recipes for creams that help get rid of scarring, and I figured you might want some, so I made a tub.” Lance smiled in thanks, brought a hand to the scar on his neck, then continued to breathe in the pleasant aroma. Keith leaned closer so he could sniff it, too, his nose brushing Lance’s as he did. The brunet giggled when the head knight gave a stiff nod of approval at the scent. “Ugh, you guys are disgusting. And yeah, Hunk was the one to make it smell nice.”

“Think of it as a welcome to the team,” Shiro said, limping into the room and muttering something about being too old. He smiled, but then he was shoved again. The queen began to push everyone from the room, insisting that the couple needed rest or something along those lines. Keith was too focused on the heavy head against his shoulder to really pay much attention to what was being said. He pushed himself further up onto the bed, settling his back against the pillows again. Lance shot him an abandoned look, like a cat who’d been woken from his nap, so Keith patted his chest welcomingly, unabashed, even with his coworkers still lingering in the room. His husband let a gentle smile curve his lips.

He made his way over and when he landed his nose at the nook between Keith’s collarbones, the head knight fixed his arms around him quickly. The position dragged him towards unconsciousness immediately; the sensation of Lance in his arms made him feel complete. Finally the craving of his heat had been fulfilled and now that the icy worry at the back of his mind had been cleared, he could embrace the heat with all of his love and passion. He kept his grip on Lance strong, hands locked together about the small of his back, as if the therapeutic hold would actually keep him safe should something happen. At the very least, it relaxed him.

Keith shut his eyes, reveling in the _feeling_ of everything for a moment. The pleasant weight against his chest, the sweet breaths against his neck, the gentle wrap of his husband’s arms over whatever part of Keith’s body he could reach. All of it was overwhelmingly perfect. He was more content in that moment than he had ever been. The two had just woken up, but sleep was still coming easy to him. And even before it reached him, he knew, with the utmost certainty, that it would be the best rest he’d had in years. Lance in his arms just felt so _right._ He’d missed it so much that the realization that his hopes had come to fruition settled easily and comfortably into his chest. It swelled and heated even the inches of skin Lance couldn’t lounge across with his body.

Unbeknownst to Keith, his husband felt much the same way. He felt comfortable and like he’d just gotten what he’d been yearning for so long. Just like Keith, more than anything else, more than any other part of Keith, he’d missed his husband’s heat. He’d thought of his voice while away. The gentle ebb and flow of it when he spoke affectionately or when he tried to calm Lance down from some sort of emotional turmoil. The passionate hum of it when he tried to rile Lance up, tried to get his skin to crawl with desire. The spark and sharp edge of it when he made sarcastic remarks, when he made Lance laugh with insulting jokes. But while all those things were parts of Keith that Lance adored, all the memories of them had faded into the way his voice fanned across the skin of his neck and heated the flesh and made him feel so very loved and full and _complete._

While captive, he’d also thought of Keith’s hair. How it pooled around his shoulders, tickling the skin when the two would go out shopping and the wind blew it just right. How it knotted around the back of his head when he woke up, letting Lance see the shine of his eyes, without having to pull it back. How his husband would let him play with it, clean it, and apply whatever products he wanted, just because the knight wanted to see him smile. He’d thought about the softness of it when he braided it or when he scrubbed in shampoo. But then, like his voice, the thought of hair would morph into the warmth of his scalp as he ran his fingers along it. The way he could always count on that heat being there to remind him that he was loved.

And Lance had thought about why it was his warmth that he’d missed so much, and he’d concluded that it made sense. After all, when he truly considered it, heat really was all a soul was. Heat was proof that a body was alive at all, heat was the physical manifestation of all sorts of emotions, and heat was the reminder that Keith had both; that he had both life and emotions. And that so many of his emotions evoked so many more in Lance, painting them both as the _humans_ they were. And those emotions, that one life of that one man, was really what he’d been missing. And he’d just been latching onto the most tangible parts of his love: the way his heat expressed it.

Both Keith and Lance were finally at ease. Sleep had begun to wrap its arms around them, all worries consumed, until one resurfaced. It popped above the water in which Keith was being drawn into, pulled deeper towards comfortable rest. Towards his needed rest. Towards his _earned_ rest. But he gripped the buoy of the restless loose end, and he was tugged back out of the waves with it. His head resurfaced, skull still swollen with excess puddles of drowsiness, and he focused his brain enough to spot the queen heading to leave the room.

“Ah, Your Majesty,” he started, remaining quiet so the steady, sleepy huffs of air against his skin didn’t stir awake and stop. Allura spun around, lips forming the normal, polite smile she subconsciously wore everywhere. Having been given the queen’s attention, the head knight considered how it was he wanted to phrase this. He wanted to ask about Lotor, since the man hadn’t been completely dead when Keith had last been conscious. If he was alive, Keith certainly had a bone to pick with him still, and he wanted to know if he had a fight to win when he awakened from his nap with Lance. He’d decided on a vague, open ended question, so it could be answered with as many or as few details as the queen wanted. “What happened to Lotor?”

The polite smile of her face fell into something more uncomfortable and tense. Her lips flattened and turned taught. Her eyes flitted to where she’d relocated Lance’s certification and scar cream on the bedside table. Her words faltered, for just a moment.

“Ah. You see, therein lies the problem.”

And suddenly, Keith was no longer submerged even slightly in the murky waves of unconsciousness.

No, he was very much awake.

 

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where Roundabout by Yes would start to play  
> Things worth noting:  
> \- There WILL be a sequel, in case I haven't already said so, or you haven't read so!!  
> \- It won't be the next thing I write, tho! (I have a cute fake dating fic planned next, it'll be short and easy to write tho, so it shouldn't be too long before I'm onto the sequel for this!)  
> \- Updates of the sequel may not be as quick as this fic's!! I start a new job in less than 24 hours and idk how it'll affect my writing schedule, so be prepared for slower update speeds!  
> \- If you wanna know when the sequel comes out (or you just love me o3o), you can:  
> >> subscribe to me on here!!  
> >> follow me on [my tumblr](https://cakepopple.tumblr.com/), where I'll post something when the next fic comes out!  
> >> check back in like a week or two, cuz I'll def have something up by then!!
> 
> I think that's all I have to say, so it's been an honor flying with you all :)  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
